CIHM 
Microfiche 
Series 
(l\Aonograplis) 


ICI\/IH 

Collection  de 
microfiches 
(monographies) 


Canadiwi  ImthuM  tor  Historical  MicroraproduGtioin  /  InMHut  Canadian  da  microraproductions  liiatoriquas 


995 


Tadinial  Mid  WbNoanphie  Now  /  Notn  iMhniqiMt  M  MWio«raphiqu« 


Th*  ImtlniM  h»  ammpnd  to  obtain  tlw  b«t  orifinil 
copy  aniWil*  for  fihnint.  Fanurat  of  Ihn  eo^  urtiich 
may  ha  MMioafapiileaMy  iiniqu*,  which  may  ala,r  any 
of  tfw  inuflat  HI  Ihv  laproauctiont  or  whiah  nay 
litnificantly  chanfa  tha  inual  mathod  of  fihning,  ata 
chacltao  balow. 


0Colo«ra4  eonan/ 
Counartura  da  eoiilattr 


D 
D 


Cowrt  dtmind/ 
Couwfiura  wtdonmupiv 


Comre  rotond  and/or  lamiiMtid/ 
CouMTtura  mtturtc  tt/ou  paUicuM* 


I       I  Cow  titte  minini/ 


I  La  titrt  di  couMTtur*  manqiit 


I I  Carm  9<0|raphiquat  an  eoulaur 

n 


Coloured  ink  (i.a.  othar  than  blua  or  Madt)/ 
Encre  da  eoulaur  <i.a.  autre  qua  Maua  ou  mire) 

Colourad  platat  and/or  illuttretions/ 
Ptanchai  at/ou  illuttrationt  an  ooulaur 


Bound  with  othar  malarial/ 
Ralii  avac  d'autras  documanti 


□  Tight  binding  may  cauM  thadowi  or  tfitortton 
along  intarior  margin/ 

La  raliura  larria  paut  cauaar  da  rombra  ou  da  fa 
diitorsion  la  long  da  la  marga  intfriaun 

□  Blank  taavai  addad  during  rastoration  may  appaar 
within  tha  laxt  Whaitavar  powMa,  thata  hava 
baan  omittad  from  filming/ 
II M  paut  qua  cartatnn  pagas  Manchas  ajouttai 
kirt  d'una  rattauration  apparainant  dam  la  taxta, 
mail,  loraqua  eala  iiait  potiiMa,  cat  pagn  n'ont 


D 


Additional  cominantl:/ 
Commantairat  luppMniantaitai: 


Thii  itam  if  filmad  at  tha  raduction  ratio  chackad  balow/ 
Ca  documant  aft  filnrf  lu  taux  da  rMiKtion  indiqui  ci-daftoin. 
lOX  UX  18X 


L'Imtitiit  a  mienfihn*  la  maillaiir  axamplaira  qu'il 
lui  a  M  pottiMa  da  ta  praeurar.  Lai  dtoili  da  eat 
amniplaira  qui  torn  paat-«tra  uniquM  du  point  da  >ua 
bibUofraphiqua,  qui  pauaant  modWaf  una  iniafa 
raproduita.  ou  qui  pauaant  axifar  una  modif ication 
dam  la  mMwda  nomiala  da  f  ihnaia  torn  indiqu«t 


Colourad  paiat/ 


□  Patat  rastorad  and/or  laminalad/ 
Pafai  rastaurtat  at/ou  paNieuMaa 

SPaiat  diteolourad.  ftainad  or  foxad/ 
Pa«n  dicolortat,  tachatiat  ou  piquiat 

□  Pa«at  datachad/ 


QShowthrough/ 
Tranfparanca 

I      yj  Quality  of  print  variat/ 
iJCI  Oualiti  in««ala  da  I'impr 

D 
D 


Continuous  pagination/ 
Paflination  continua 

Indudaf  indaxlasi/ 
Comprand  un  (das)  indax 

Titk  on  haadar  takan  from;/ 
La  titta  da  I'an-tlta  prooiant: 

f  issua/ 


□  Titia  paga  of  issua. 
Pa«a  da  tiua  da  la 

□  Caption  of  issua/ 
Titra  da  dipart  da  la 

D 


livraiton 


Masthaad/ 

Giniriqua  Iptriodiquas)  da  la  li>raison 


22X 


12X 


WX 


ax 


Tha  copy  fllmad  hara  haa  baan  raproducad  thankt 
to  tha  ganaroalty  of: 

National  Library  of  Canada 


L'axamplaira  lUmt  fut  raproduit  grlca  1  la 
g4n4roait«  da: 

Blbllothiqua  natlonale  du  Canada 


Tha  imagas  appaaring  hara  ara  tha  bait  qualltv 
pouibia  contidaring  tha  condition  and  lagiblllty 
of  tha  original  copy  and  In  kaaplng  with  tha 
filming  contract  apaclf icationa. 


Laa  Imagai  lulvantaa  ont  *t*  raproduiiat  avac  la 
plua  grand  loin.  compta  tanu  da  la  condition  at 
da  la  nattat*  da  raxamplaira  fllm«,  at  an 
eonfermM  avac  laa  condltlona  du  contrat  da 
filmaga. 


Original  coplaa  in  printad  papor  eovara  ara  fllmad 
baginning  with  ttM  front  eovar  and  anding  on 
tha  iaat  paga  with  a  printad  or  illuatratad  impraa- 
■ion.  or  tha  back  eovar  whan  appropriata.  All 
othar  original  copiaa  ara  fllmad  baginning  on  tfw 
firat  paga  with  a  printad  or  Illuatratad  impraa- 
•Ion,  and  anding  on  tha  Iaat  paga  with  a  printad 
or  Illuatratad  impraaaion. 


Tha  Iaat  racordad  frama  on  aach  microfieha 
thall  contain  tha  lymbol  — ^  (moaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  tha  symbol  ▼  (moaning  "END"), 
whichavar  appliaa. 


Laa  axampkliraa  origlnaux  dont  la  couvartura  an 
papiar  aat  Imprimta  torn  fllmta  an  commancant 
par  la  pramlar  plat  at  an  tarmlnant  loit  par  la 
darnlAra  paga  qui  compona  una  ampralnta 
d'Impraaaion  ou  d'illustratlon,  toit  par  la  tacond 
plat.  lalon  la  eaa.  Toua  las  autras  axamplairas 
originaux  sant  flimts  an  eommancant  par  la 
pramiira  paga  qui  eomporto  una  ampralnta 
dimpraaalon  ou  d'lllustration  at  an  tarmlnant  par 
la  darnitra  paga  qui  eomporta  una  talla 
ampralnta. 

Un  daa  symbolaa  auivanta  apparaltra  tur  la 
darniira  Imaga  da  chaqua  microfieha,  salon  la 
caa:  la  symbola  ^»  signlfia  "A  SUIVRE"  la 
aymbola  ▼  aignifia  "FIN". 


Mapa.  plataa,  charts,  ate.,  may  bo  fllmad  at 
diffarant  raduction  ratios.  Thoaa  too  larga  to  ba 
antlraiy  included  In  one  avpoaura  ara  fllmad 
baginning  In  tha  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bonom,  as  many  frames  es 
required.  The  following  diagrema  Illustrate  the 
method: 


Lea  cartaa.  planchea,  ubieaux.  etc..  peuvent  itra 
filmts  t  das  uux  da  reduction  differanis. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grend  pour  ttre 
reproduit  en  un  soul  cliche,  il  est  film*  *  psrtir 
do  Tangle  supirieur  geuche.  de  gauche  i  droite. 
et  de  haut  en  baa.  an  prenant  le  nombre 
d'Imeges  necessaira.  Las  diagremmes  suivsnts 
lllustrent  le  methode. 


1  2  3 


1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

MCMoeon  nsoiuTiON  tbt  cha(t 

(ANSI  ond  ISO  TEST  CHART  No.  2) 


I.I 


IM 


in 


l»24 


mm^ 


^  APPLIED   IM/CE     Ine 

^^  16S3  East  Main  SIrMt 

g'^S  RochMler,   Naw  rorfc        14609       USA 

■ffr  <^^C)  ^83  ~  0300  -  PtioM 

^S  (716)   280  -  5989  -  Fox 


CITY  OF 
COMRADES 

BASIL  KING 


m- 


.•^ 


^ 


1^^' 


%'H^tt4^a. 


'a^/<?i  i 


'/f 


'"ghr  was  the  first  sound  that  came  from  her. 


(S«  p.  u) 

"Don't 
She's 


THE 

CITY  OF  COMRADES 


BY 

BASIL  KING 


AUTHOK  OF 


THE  INNER  SHRINE, 
THE  WILD  OL:ve.  Etc. 


i  *—m'Hi,  ,.T»am,  I  mm  1  tltf  HtrtweMt  It  tktaumtt 

Hr-m'4tlutmu1k,m,mCUf^Fritmi,; 
NtUmt  wn  trmfr  tkm  Ihm  tk»  fuMf  rf  ntutl  kn- 
it ltd  Otntl: 
It  Mt  im  mry  ktmr  tm  «t«  mMhu  tfitt  mntfUmdb. 
AoiHMAtttU^Miwtrtt. 

—Walt  Whttiuji. 


GROSSET    &  DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS  NEW    YORK 


iUi hiU  IMiJ Sm. rf  Am*i 


TAB  dry  or  Cchmhi 
^VrttlM,  10X9,  by  Harper  ft  BrothM^ 
MMd  la  tk*  U^twl  autM  of  AMrfM 


0  923034 


THE  CITY   OF  COMRADES 


CHAPTER    I 


-MO." 

IN  "Nor 

"No." 

In  the  slow  swirl  of  Columbus  Circle,  at  the  southwest 
comer  of  Central  Park,  two  seedy,  sinister  individual* 
could  hold  an  exceedingly  private  conversation  without 
drawing  attention  to  themselves.  There  were  others  like 
us  on  the  scene,  in  that  month  of  June,  1913,  cast  up  from 
the  obscurest  depths  of  New  York.  We  could  revolve 
there  for  five  or  ten  minutes,  in  company  with  other  ele- 
ments of  the  city's  life,  to  be  eliminated  by  degrees,  sucked 
into  other  currents,  forming  new  combinations  or  reacting 
to  the  old  ones. 

In  silence  we  shuffled  along  a  few  paces,  though  not 
exactly  side  by  side.  Lovey  was  just  sufficiently  behind 
me  to  be  able  to  talk  confidentially  into  my  ear.  My  own 
manner  was  probably  that  of  a  man  anxious  to  throw  oiF  a 
dogging  inferior.    Even  among  us  there  are  social  degrees. 

"Yer'll  be  sorry,"  Lovey  warned  me,  reproachfully. 

"Very  well,  then,"  I  jerked  back  at  hb>  over  my  shoul- 
der; "I  shaU  be  sorry." 

"If  I  didn't  know  it  wm  a  faai  thing  I  wouldn't  V 


THE   CITY  OF  COMRADES 

wanted  to  take  ye  in  on  it— not  you,  I  wouldn't;   and 
dead  easy." 

"I  don't  care  for  it." 

"  Ye're  only  a  beginner — " 

"I'm  not  even  that." 

"No,  ye're  not  even  that;  and  this 'd  lam  ye.  Justtwo 
old  ladies— lots  of  money  always  in  the  'ouse— no  resist- 
ance—no weepons  nor  nothink  o'  that  kind;  and  me 
knowin'  every  hinch  of  the  ground  through  workin*  for 
'em  two  years  ago — " 

"And  suppose  they  recognized  you  ?" 

"That's  it.  That's  why  I  must  have  a  pal.  If  they'd 
git  a  look  at  any  one  it  'd  have  to  be  at  you.  But  you 
don't  need  to  be  afraid,  never  pinched  before  nor  nothink. 
Once  yer  picter's  in  the  rogues'  they'll  run  ye  in  if  ye  so 
much  as  blow  yer  nose.  You'd  just  get  by  as  an  unknown 
man." 

"And  if  I  didn't  get  by?" 

"Oh,  but  you  would,  sonny.  Ye're  the  kind.  Just  look 
at  ye!  Slim  and  easy-movin'  as  a  snake,  y'are.  Ye'd  go 
through  a  man's  clothes  while  he's  got  'em  on,  and  he 
wouldn't  notice  ye  no  more'n  a  puff  of  wind.  Look  at 
yer  'and." 

I  held  it  up  and  looked  at  it.  A  year  ago,  a  month  ago, 
I  should  have  studied  it  with  remorse.  Now  I  did  it 
stupidly,  without  emotions  or  regrets. 

It  was  a  long,  slim  hand,  resembling  the  rest  of  my  per- 
son. It  was  strong,  however,  with  big,  loosely  articulated 
knuckles  and  muscular  thumbs — again  resembling  the 
rest  of  my  person.  At  the  Beaux  Arts,  and  in  an  occa- 
sional architect's  office,  it  had  been  spoken  of  as  a  "draw- 
ing" hand;  and  Lovey  was  now  pointing  out  its  advan- 
tages for  other  purposes.  I  laughed  to  myself. 
2 


THE   CITY  OF  COMRADES 

"Ye're  too  tall,"  Lovey  went  on,  in  his  appraisement. 
"That's  ag'in'  ye.  Ye  must  be  a  good  six  foot.  But  lots 
o'  men  are  too  tall.  They  gits  over  it  by  stoopin'  a  bit; 
and  when  ye  stoops  it  frightens  people,  especially  women. 
They  ain't  near  as  scared  of  a  man  that  stands  straight 
up  as  they'll  be  of  one  that  crouches  and  wiggles  away. 
Kind  o'  suggests  eyil  to  'em,  like,  it  does.  And  these 
two  old  ladies — " 

As  we  reached  the  comer  of  the  Park  I  rounded  slowly 
on  my  tempter.  Not  that  he  thought  of  his  offer  as 
temptation,  any  more  than  I  did;  it  was  rather  on  his 
part  a  touch  of  solicitude.  He  was  doing  his  best  for  me, 
in  return  for  what  he  was  pleased  to  take  as  my  kindness 
to  him  during  the  past  ten  days. 

He  was  a  small,  wizened  man,  pathetically  neat  in  spite 
of  cruel  shabbiness.  It  was  the  kind  of  neatness  that  in 
our  world  so  often  differentiates  the  man  who  has  dropped 
from  him  who  has  always  been  down.  The  gray  suit, 
which  was  little  more  than  a  warp  with  no  woof  on  it  at 
all,  was  brushed  and  smoothed  and  mended.  The  flannel 
shirt,  with  tumed-down  collar,  must  have  been  chosen  for 
its  resistance  to  the  show  of  dirt.  The  sky-blue  tie  might 
have  been  a  more  useful  selection,  but  even  that  had  had 
freshness  steamed  and  pressed  into  it  whenever  Lovey 
had  got  the  opportunity.  Over  what  didn't  so  directly 
meet  the  eye  the  coat  was  tightly  buttoned  up. 

The  boots  were  the  weakest  point,  as  they  are  with  all 
of  us.  They  were  not  noticeably  broken,  but  they  were 
wrinkled  and  squashed  and  down  at  the  heel.  They 
looked  as  if  they  had  been  worn  by  other  men  before  hav- 
ing come  to  the  present  possessor;  and  mine  looked  the 
same.  When  I  went  into  offices  to  apply  for  work  it  was 
always  my  boots  that  I  tried  to  keep  out  of  sight;  but  it 
3 


THE  CITY  0;F  comrades 

w«t  Pi^y  what  the  eye  of  the  feUow  in  coounaad 
•eemed  detennined  to  search  out  and  judge  me  by. 

You  mutt  not  think  of  Lovey  a*  a  criminal.    He  had 
committed  petty  crimes  and  he  had  gone  to  jail  for  them; 
but  It  had  only  been  from  the  instinct  of  «;lf-pre,ervation. 
He  worked  when  he  got  a  job;  but  he  never  kept  a  job, 
because  his  habits  always  rired  him.    Then  he  lived  as  he 
could,  hftmg  whatever  small  object  came  his  way-^an 
apple  from  a  frmt-stall,  a  purse  p  iady  had  inadvertently 
laid  down,  a  bag  m  a  station,  an  umbrella  forgotten  in  a 
comei-anythu^t    The  pawnshops  knew  him  so  well  that 
he  was  afr^d  to  go  into  them  any  more-except  when  he 
was  so  tired  that  he  wanted  to  be  sent  to  the  Island  frr  a 
awith  s  rest    In  general,  he  disposed  of  his  booty  for  a 
tew  pennies  to  children,  to  poverty-stricken  mothers  of 
famihes,  to  pak  m  the  saloons.    A,  long  as  a  few  doUars 
totted  he  Lved,  as  he  himself  would  have  said,  honestly. 
When  he  was  dnven  to  it  he  filched  again;    but  onlv 
;  wnen  he  was  dnven  to  it. 

It  was  ten  days  now  since  he  had  begun  following  me 

about,  somewhat  as  a  stray  dog  will  foUow  you  when  you 

have  given  hun  a  bone  and  a  drink  of  water.    For  a  year 

and  more  I  had  seen  him  in  one  or  another  of  the  dives  I 

himg  about.    The  same  faces  always  turn  up  there,  and 

we  get  to  ha     the  kind  of  ac  .uaintance,  silent,  haunted, 

tolerant,  that  bmds  together  souls  in  the  Inferno.     In 

general,  it  is  a  great  fraternity;  but  now  and  then-often 

for  reasons  no  one  could  fathom-some  one  is  excluded. 

He  comes  and  goes,  and  the  others  follow  him  with  re. 

•ontful  looks  and  curses.    Occasionally  he  is  kicked  out. 

which  was  what  happened  to  Lovey  whenever  his  w«ak- 

ness  afforded  the  excuse. 

It  was  when  he  was  kic\ed  out  of  Stinaon's  that  I  had 

4 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

picked  him  up.    It  wat  after  midnight.    It  wis  cold. 
The  tight  of  the  abject  face  wai  too  much  for  me. 

"Come  along  home  Krith  me,  Lovey,"  I  had  laid, 
casually;  and  he  came. 

Home  was  no  more  than  a  stifling  garret,  and  Lovey 
slept  on  the  floor  like  a  dog.  But  in  the  morning  I  found 
my  shoes  cleaned  as  well  as  he  could  clean  them  without 
brush  '/r  blacking,  my  clothes  folded,  and  the  whole 
beastly  place  in  such  order  as  a  friendly  hand  could  bring 
to  it.    Lovey  himself  was  gone. 

Twice  during  the  interval  he  had  stolen  in  in  the  same 
way  and  stolen  out.  He  asked  no  more  than  a  refuge 
and  the  privilege  of  sidling  timidly  up  to  me  with  a  be- 
seedling  look  in  his  sodden  eyes  when  we  met  in  bars. 
Once,  when  by  hook  or  by  crook  he  had  got  possession  of 
a  dollar,  he  insisted  on  the  honor  of  "buying  me  a  drinL" 

On  this  particular  afternoon  I  had  met  him  by  chance 
in  the  region  of  Broadway  between  Forty-second  Street 
and  Columbus  Circle.  I  can  still  recall  the  shy,  half- 
frightened  pleasure  in  his  face  as  he  saw  me  advancing 
toward  him.    He  might  have  been  a  young  girl. 

"Got  somethin'  awful  good,  sonny,  to  let  ye  in  on," 
were  the  words  with  which  he  stopped  me. 

I  turned  round  and  walked  back  -  :  him  to  the  Grde, 
and  round  it. 

"No,  Lovey,"  I  said  decidedly,  when  we  had  got  to  the 
comer  of  the  Park, "  it's  not  good  enough.  I've  other  fish 
to  fry." 

A  hectic  flush  stole  into  the  cheeks,  which  kept  a  mar- 
\  vdous  youth  and  freshness.    The  thin,  delicate  features, 
ascetic  rather  than  degraded,  sharpened  with  a  frosty 
look  of  disappointment. 

"Wdl,  just  as  you  think  best,  sonny,"  he  said,  »• 
5 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

aignedly.    He  9«kcd,  abruptly,  however,  "When  did  y 
have  yer  last  meal?" 

"The  day  before  yesterday." 

"And  when  d'ye  expect  to  have  yer  next?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.    Sometime;  possibly  to-night." 

"Possibly  to-night—    'Ow?" 

"I  tell  you  I  don't  know.  Something  will  happen.  If 
it  doesn't-^well,  I'll  manage." 

He  had  found  an  opening. 

"Don't  ye  see  ye  cam't  go  on  like  that?  Ye've  got  to 
Jive." 

"Oh  no,  I  havenV 

"Don't  say  that,  sonny,"  he  burst  out,  tenderly. 
"Ye've  got  to  livel  Ye  must  do  it— for  my  sake— now. 
I  suppose  it's  because  we're— we're  Britishers  together." 
He  looked  round  on  the  circling  crowd  of  Slavs,  Mon- 
golians, Greeks,  Italians,  aliens  of  all  sorts.  "We're  dif- 
ferent from  these  Yankees,  ain't  we?" 

Admitting  our  Anglo-Saxon  superiority,  I  was  about  to 
say,  "Well,  so  long,  Lovey,"  and  shake  him  off,  when  he 
put  in,  piteously,  "I  suppose  I  can  come  up  and  lay  down 
on  yer  floor  again  to-night?" 

"I  wish  you  could,  Lovey,"  I  responded.  "But— but 
the  fact  is  I— I  haven't  got  that  place  any  more." 

"Fired?" 

I  nodded. 

"Where've  ye  gone?" 

"Nowhere." 

"Where  did  ye  sleep  last  night P* 

I  described  the  exact  spot  in  the  lumber-yard  near 
Greeley's  Slip.  He  knew  it.  He  had  made  use  of  its 
hospitality  himself  on  warm  summer  nights  such  as  we 
were  having. 

6 


THE  CITY  OF   COMRADES 

"Goin'  there  again  to-night  f" 

I  said  I  didn't  know. 

He  gazed  at  me  with  a  kind  of  timid  daring.  "You 
wouldn't  be— you  wouldn't  be  goin'  to  the  Down  and  Out 
Qubf 

I  smiled. 

"Why  should  you  ask  me  that?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  See  you  talkin'  to  one  of  those 
fellas  oncet.  Chap  named  Fyncheon.  Worce  than  mis- 
sions and  'vangelists,  they  are." 

"Did  you  ever  think  of  going  there  yourself?" 

"Oh,  Lord  love  ye!  I've  thought  of  it,  yer  But  I've 
(ought  it  ofF.    Once  ye  do  that  ye're  doni    or." 

"Well,  I  don't  believe  I'm  done  for—"  1  began;  but 
he  interrupted  me  coaxingly. 

"I  say,  sonny.  I'll  go  to  Greeley's  Slip.  Then  if 
you've  nothin'  else  on  'and,  you  come  there,  too — and 
we'll  be  fellas  together.  But  don't — don't — go  to  the 
Down  and  Outl" 

As  I  walked  away  from  him  I  had  his  "fellas  together" 
amusingly,  and  also  pathetically,  in  my  heart.  Lovey 
was  little  better  than  an  outcast.  I  knew  him  by  no  name 
but  that  which  some  pothouse  wag  had  fixed  on  him 
derisively.  From  hints  he  had  dropped  I  gathered  that 
he  had  had  a  wife  and  daughters  somewhere  in  the  world, 
and  intuitively  I  got  the  impression  that  without  being 
a  criminal  he  had  been  connected  with  a  crime.  As  to 
his  personal  history  he  had  never  confided  to  me  any  of 
the  details  beyond  the  fact  that  in  his  palmy  days  he  had 
been  in  a  'at-shop  in  the  Edgware  Road.  I  fancied  that 
at  some  time  or  another  in  his  career  his  relatives  in  Lon- 
don— like  my  own  in  Canada — ^had  made  up  a  lump  sum 
and  bidden  him  begone  to  the  land  of  reconstruction. 
7 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

Then  he  had  become  what  he  wa*— an  outcaat.  Theie  I 
wu  becoming  an  outcaat  likewiie.  We  wen  "fellaa  to- 
jether."  I  wa«  thirty-one  and  he  waa  fifty-twa  My 
comparative  youth  helped  me,  in  that  I  didn't  look  older 
than  my  age;  but  he  might  easily  have  been  leventy. 

Having  got  rid  of  him,  I  drifted  diagonally  acroH  the 
Park,  but  with  a  certain  method  in  the  teeming  lack  of 
method  in  taking  my  direction.  Though  I  had  an  objec- 
tive point,  I  didn't  dare  to  approach  it  otherwiie  than  by 
a  roundabout  route.  It  it  probable  that  no  gaze  but 
that  of  the  angels  was  upon  me;  but  to  me  it  seemed 
as  if  every  glance  that  roved  up  and  down  the  Park  muat 
spot  my  aim. 

For  this  reason  I  assumed  a  manner  meant  to  thnnr 
observation  off  the  scent.  I  loitered  to  look  at  young 
people  on  horseback  or  to  state  at  some  specially  dashing 
notor-car.  I  strolled  into  by-paths  and  out  of  them.  I 
passed  under  the  noses  of  policemen  in  gray-blue  unifonna 
and  tried  to  infuse  my  carriage  with  the  fact  which  Lovey 
had  emphasized,  that  I  had  never  yet  been  pinched.  I 
had  never  yet,  so  far  as  I  knew,  done  anything  to  warrant 
pinching;  and  that  I  had  no  intentions  beyond  those  of 
the  ordinary  law-abiding  citizen  was  what  I  hoped  iny 
swagger  would  convey. 

Though  I  was  shabby,  I  was  not  sufficiently  so  to  be 
unworthy  to  take  the  air.  The  worst  that  could  be  said 
of  me  was  that  I  was  not  shabby  as  the  working-man  is  at 
liberty  to  be.  Mine  was  the  suspicious,  telltale  shabbi- 
ness  of  the  gentleman — far  more  damning  than  the  grime 
and  sweat  of  a  chimney-sweep. 

Now  that  I  was  alone  again,  I  had  a  return  of  the  sensa- 
tion that  had  been  on  me  since  waking  in  the  morning — 
that  I  was  walking  in  the  air.    I  felt  that  I  bounced  like 
8 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

a  babble  evety  time  I  stepped.  The  day  before  I  had 
been  giddy;  now  I  waa  only  light.  It  waa  a«  if  at  any 
minute  I  might  go  up.  Unconidoutly  I  ground  my  foot- 
itept  into  the  gravel  or  the  gram  to  keep  myieif  on  the 
iolid  earth. 

It  waa  not  the  first  time  I  had  gone  without  food  for 
twenty-four  hours,  but  it  was  the  first  time  I  had  done  it 
for  forty-eight.  Moreover,  it  was  the  first  timt:  I  had  ever 
been  without  some  prospect  of  food  ahead  of  me.  With  a 
meal  surely  in  sight  on  the  following  day  I  could  have 
waited  for  it.  More  easily  I  could  have  waited  for  a 
drink  or  two.  Drink  kept  me  going  longer  than  food,  for 
in  spite  of  the  reaction  after  it  the  need  of  it  had  grown 
more  insistent.  Had  I  been  offered  my  choice  between 
food  and  life,  on  the  one  hand,  and  drink  and  death,  on 
the  other,  I  think  I  should  have  chosen  drink  and  death. 

But  now  there  was  no  likelihood  of  either.  I  had  hus- 
banded my  last  pennies  after  my  last  meal,  to  make  them 
spin  out  to  as  many  drinks  as  possible.  I  had  begged  a 
few  more  drinks,  and  cadged  a  few  more.  But  I  had  come 
to  my  limit  in  all  these  direaions.  Before  I  sought  the 
shelter  of  Greeley's  Slip  a  hint  had  been  given  me  at 
Stinson's  that  I  might  come  in  for  the  compliments  show- 
ered on  Lovey  ten  days  previously.  Now  as  I  walked  in 
the  Park  the  craving  inside  me  was  not  because  I  hadn't 
eaten,  but  because  I  hadn't  drunk  that  day. 

Two  or  three  bitter  temptations  assailed  me  before  I 
reached  Fifth  Avenue.  One  was  in  the  form  of  a  pretty 
girl  of  eight  or  ten,  who  came  mincing  down  a  flowery 
path,  holding  a  quarter  between  the  thumb  and  forefinger 
of  her  left  hand.  Satan  must  have  sent  her.  I  could 
have  snatched  the  quarter  and  made  my  escape,  only 
that  I  lacked  the  nerve.    Then  there  waa  a  newsbc^counfri 

a  9 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

ing  hi*  gaiiM  on  a  bench.  They  were  laid  out  in  rows  be- 
fofe  him— pennies,  nickeli,  and  dimet.  I  Kood  for  a 
minute  and  looked  down  at  him,  ettimating  the  eaie  with 
which  I  could  have  itooped  and  iwept  them  all  into  my 
palm.  He  looked  up  and  imiled.  The  imile  didn't  dif- 
arm  me;  I  wat  beyond  the  reach  of  any  auch  appeal.  It 
wai  again  that  I  didn't  have  the  nerve.  Lastly  an  old 
woman,  a  nurse,  was  dealing  out  coins  to  three  small  chil- 
dren that  they  might  make  purchases  of  a  blind  man  sell- 
ing bootlaces  and  pencils.  I  could  have  swiped  them  all 
•s  neatly  as  a  croupier  pulls  in  louis  d'or  with  his  rake- 
but  I  was  afraid. 

These  were  real  temptations,  as  fierce  as  any  I  ever 
faced.  By  the  time  I  had  reached  the  Avenue  I  was  in  a 
cold  perspiration,  as  much  from  a  sense  of  failure  as  from 
the  effort  at  resistance.  I  wondered  how  I  should  ever 
carry  out  the  plans  I  had  in  mind  if  I  was  to  balk  at  such 
little  things  as  this. 

The  plans  I  had  in  mind  still  kept  me  from  making 
headway  as  the  crow  flies.  I  went  far  up  the  Avenue; 
I  crossed  into  Madison  Avenue;  I  went  up  that  again; 
I  crossed  into  Park  Avenue.  I  crossed  and  recrossed  and 
crisscrossed  and  descended,  and  at  last  found  myself 
strolling  by  a  house  toward  which  I  scarcely  dared  to 
turn  my  eyes,  feeling  that  even  for  looking  at  it  I  might 
be  arrested. 

I  slackened  my  pace  so  as  to  verify  all  the  points  which 
experts  had  underscored  in  my  hearing.  There  was  the 
vacant  lot  which  the  surrounding  buildings  rendered  so 
dark  at  night.  There  was  the  low,  red-brown  fence  in- 
closing the  back  premises,  over  which  a  limber,  long-legged 
fellow  like  me  could  leap  in  a  second.  There  were  the 
usual  numerous  windows — to  kitchen,  scullery,  pantry, 

10 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

laundry— of  any  (ood-iixed  American  hotuc^  tome  one 
of  wh-  li  wa«  pretty  ture  to  be  left  unguarded  on  a  tuin- 
mer  r  tht.  TTiere  were  the  neighboring  yaidi,  with  n  ore 
low  fence*,  offering  excellent  cover  Li  a  get-away,  wiA 
another  vacant  lot  leading  out  on  another  street  a  tittle 
farther  down. 

I  had  to  many  time*  «trolled  by  the  hou*e  a*  I  was  doing 
now,  and  had  *o  many  time*  rehearsed  it*  characteristics, 
that  I  made  the  final  review  with  some  exactitude  before 
passing  on  my  way. 

My  way  was  not  fai  There  was  nothing  to  do  but  to 
go  back  into  the  Park.  As  it  was  nearly  six  o'clock,  it 
wa*  too  late  to  search  for  a  job  that  day,  and  I  should 
have  had  no  heart  for  doing  so  in  any  case.  I  had  found 
a  job  that  morning— that  of  handling  big  packing-ca*es  in 
a  warehouae— but  I  wa*  too  exhausted  for  the  work. 
When  in  the  effort  to  lift  one  onto  a  truck  I  collapsed  and 
nearly  fainted,  I  wa*  told  in  a  choice  selecdon  of  oathf 
to  beat  it  a*  no  good. 

I  sat  on  a  bench,  therefore,  waiting  for  the  dark  and 
thinking  of  the  house  of  which  I  had  just  inspected  the 
outaide.  It  wa*  not  a  house  picked  at  random.  It  wa« 
one  that  had  posse*sed  an  interest  for  me  during  all  the 
three  years  I  had  been  in  New  York.  I  had,  in  fact, 
brought  a  letter  of  introduction  to  its  owner  from  the 
man  under  whom  I  had  worked  in  Montreal.  Chiefly 
through  my  own  carelessness,  nothing  came  of  that,  but 
I  never  failed,  when  I  passed  this  way,  to  stare  at  the 
dwelling  as  one  in  which  I  might  have  had  a  footing. 

The  occupant  was  also  a  well-known  architect  in  New 
York.    In  the  architects'  offices  in  which  I  found  employ- 
ment I  heard  him  praised,  criticized,  condemned.    Hia 
work  was  good  or  bad  according  to  the  speaker's  point  of 
II 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

^fcw.    ItHou«l«htolw«Mytood,widitn<wMmplMdi 
on  omaiiitiiit. 

It  wti  M  odd  fact  that,  in  ttardnf  out  on  what  waa 
dwr  in  my  mind  a.  a  new  phaM  in  my  caieer.  no  other 
b««..u««ted.t.dfu  a  field  of  operation..  Aatothi. 
cnelWt  documented,  and  that  waaalL  Ihadnoienae 
of  horror  at  what  I  waa  about  to  do;  no  rnnorae  from  the 
^^  from  whKh  I  had  fjllen.  I  ^p^  „y  „j„j 
waa  too  tick  for  that,  and  my  body  too  imperatively  dam- 
oiou^    I  had  laid  to  Lovey  that  I  didn't  have  to  live- 

T'uA^!Z,  u**"  f"  *"  ^'y  •"*»"»•"«  *at  I  did. 
Ihad  wood  at  the  edge  of  Greele/.  Slip  and  watched  the 
awirhng  rf  the  brown^reen  w,  er  with  a  view  to  making 
an  end  of  it.  One  «tep  and  I  thould  be  out  of  all  thia 
miaery  „d  di«gracej  The  world  would  be  rid  of  m^;  my 
fcrnily  would  be  rid  of  me;  I  .hould  be  rid  of  n>^{, 
irtuch  would  be  b^  of  .11.  Had  I  been  quite  .u«  ai 
to  the  last  pomt,  I  think  I  could  have  done  it.  But  I 
wawit  quite  .ure.  I  wa.  far  from  quite  .ure.  I  could 
miagme  the  ttep  over  the  edge  of  Gieele/.  Slip  ai  a  itep 
mto  conditiona  worie  than  thoM  I  waa  enduring  no,n 
iindjo  I  had  drawn  bade  1  had  drawn  back  and  wan- 
Owed  up-town,  m  the  hope  of  aecuring  a  job  that  would 
give  me  a  breakfait. 

I  wonder  if  you  have  eve-  done  that?  I  wonder  if  you 
have  ever  gone  from  dock  cu  nation  and  from  nation  to 
ahop  and  from  .hop  to  waiehouK,  wherever  heavy,  un- 
akilled  labor  may  be  in  demand,  and  extra  hand,  are 
treated  with  a  brutality  that  .lave,  would  kick  againn. 
'"""^  '">P?,<»f  e*™'"*  fifty  cent.?  I  wonder  if  in  your 
grown-up  hfe  you  have  ever  known  a  minute  when  fifty 
cent,  nood  for  your  .alvation?  I  wonder  if  with  fifty 
cent,  nanding  for  your  .alvation  you  ever  mw  the  day 
la 


THE  CITT  OF  COMRADES 

wImb  you  couldn't  gu  ht  NoF  Then  you  will  hardly 
mdentand  how  aatunl.  how  raudi  a  mattar  of  couna^ 
tha  thing  had  baeome  which  I  wa«  naolved  to  do. 

It  wat  no  luddcn  idea.  I  had  been  living  in  the  con- 
pany  of  men  who  took  luch  fintt  for  granted.  Their  talk 
had  amaaed  me  at  fint,  but  I  had  grown  uied  to  it.  I 
had  grown  uied  to  the  thing.  I  had  come  to  find  a 
piquancy  in  the  thought  of  it. 

Then  Love/t  luggettioni  hac  not  been  thrown  away 
on  me.  True,  he  wai  out  for  imall  game,  while  I,  if  I 
went  in  (or  it,  would  want  something  bigger  and  more 
( sating;  but  the  basic  idea  was  the  same.  Lovey  could 
make  a  haul  and  live  for  weeks  on  the  fruit  of  it;  I  might 
do  the  same  and  live  for  months.  Andifldidn'tpuUitoff 
successfully,  if  I  was  nabbed  and  sent  away — why,  then 
there  would  be  «ome  let-up  in  the  struggle  which  had  be- 
come so  infernal.  Even  if  I  got  a  shot  through  the  heart 
— and  the  tales  I  heard  were  full  of  such  accidents — the 
traged;  would  not  lack  its  element  of  relief.  It  might 
be  out  of  one  hell  into  anothet^-but  it  would  at  least 
be  out  of  one. 

Not  that  I  hadn't  found  a  bitter  pleasure  in  the  lifel  I 
had.  I  found  it  still.  In  one  of  Dostoyevsky's  novela 
an  old  rake  talks  of  the  joys  of  being  in  the  gutter.  Well, 
there  are  such  joys,  lliey  are  not  joys  that  civilization 
knows  or  that  aspiration  would  find  Ieg-''3mate;  but  one 
reaches  a  point  at  which  it  is  a  satitfac  on  to  be  oneself 
at  one's  worst.  Where  all  the  pretenses  with  which  poor 
human  nature  covers  itself  up  are  cast  aside  the  soul 
can  stalk  forth  nakedly,  hideously,  and  be  unashamed. 
In  the  presence  of  each  other  we  were  always  unashamed. 
We  could  kick  over  all  standards,  we  could  drop  all  poses, 
we  could  flout  all  duties,  we  could  own  to  all  crimes,  and 
13 


THE  CITY   OF   COMRADES 

be  "fella,  together."  A*  I  went  lower  and  lower  down  it 
became  to  me  a  jdnd  of  acrid  delight,  of  positively  intel- 
lectual delight,  to  know  that  I  was  herding  with  the  most 
degraded,  and  that  there  was  no  baseness  or  bestiality 
to  which  I  was  not  at  liberty  to  submit  myself. 

If  there  had  never  been  any  reartions  from  this  state 
of  mind  I — but  God  I 

It  was  a  disadvantage  to  me  that  I  was  not  like  my 
cromes.    I  couldn't  open  my  lips  without  betraying  the 
fact  that  I  belonged  to  another  sphere.    Though  the 
broken-down  man  of  education  is  not  unknown  in  the 
underworld,  he  is  comparatively  rare.    He  is  compara- 
tively rare  and  under  suspicion,  like  a  white  swan  in  a 
flock  of  black  ones.    I  might  be  open-handed,  ingratiating, 
and  absurdly  fellow-well-met,  but  I  was  always  an  out- 
sider.   They  would  take  my  drinks,  they  would  return 
me  drinks,  we  would  swap  stories  and  experiences  with 
all  outward  show  of  equality;   but  no  one  knew  better 
than  myself  that  I  was  not  on  a  fooring  with  the  test  of 
them.    Women  took  to  me  readily  enough,  but  men  were 
always  en  their  guard.    Try  as  I  would  I  never  found  a 
mate  among  them,  I  never  made  a  friend.    Therefore, 
now  that  I  was  down  and  out,  I  had  no  one  of  whom  to 
ask  a  good  turn,  no  one  who  would  have  done  me  a  good 
turn,  but  poor,  useless  old  Lovey  sneaking  in  the  shade. 
I  was  m  a  measure  between  two  worlds.    I  had  been 
ejected  from  one  without  having  forced  a  way  into  the 
other.    When  I  say  ejected  I  mean  the  word.    The  bit- 
terest moment  in  my  life  was  on  that  night  when  my  eldest 
brother  came  to  his  door  in  Montreal  and  gave  me  fifty 
dollars,  with  the  words: 

"And  now  get  out!    Don't  let  any  of  us  ever  see  your 
face  or  hear  your  name  again." 
»4 


THE   CITY   OF   COMRADES 

As  I  stumbled  down  the  ttep*  he  gave  me  a  kick  that 
didn't  reach  me  and  which  I  had  lost  the  right  to  resent. 
He  himself  went  back  to  the  dinner-party  his  wife  wai 
entertaining  inside,  and  of  which  the  talk  and  laughter 
reached  me  as  I  stood  humbly  on  the  door-step.  From  the 
other  side  of  the  street  I  looked  back  at  the  lighted  win- 
dows.   It  was  the  last  touch  of  connection  with  my 

But  it  had  been  a  kindly,  patient  family.  My  father 
was  one  of  the  best  known  and  most  highly  honored  among 
Canadian  public  men.  As  he  had  married  an  American,  I 
had  a  good  many  cousins  in  New  York,  though  I  had  not 
made  myself  known  to  any  of  them  since  coming  there  to 
live.  I  didn't  want  them.  Had  I  met  one  of  them  in  the 
street,  I  should  have  passed  without  speaking;  but,  as  it 
happened,  I  never  met  one.  I  saw  their  names  in  the 
papers,  and  that  was  all. 

My  father  and  mother  had  had  five  children,  of  whom  I 
was  the  fourth.  My  two  brothers  were  married,  prosper- 
ous and  respected— one  a  lawyer  in  Montreal,  the  other 
a  banker  in  Toronto.  My  elder  sister  was  married  to  a 
colonel  in  the  British  army;  the  younger  one— the  only 
member  of  the  family  younger  than  myself— still  lived, 
at  home.  ,  . 

We  three  sons  were  all  graduates  of  McGill,  in  addition 
to  which  I  had  been  sent  to  the  Beaux  Arts  in  Paris.  Out 
of  that  I  had  come  with  some  degree  of  credit;  and  there 
had  been  a  year  in  which  I  was  in  sight— oh,  very  distant 
sight!— of  the  beginning  of  the  fulfilment  of  my  child- 
hood's ambition  to  revolutionize  the  art  of  architecture 
in  Canada.  But  in  the  second  year  that  vision  went 
out;  and  in  the  third  came  the  night  on  my  brother 
Jerry's  door-step. 

IS 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

I  had  nothinc  to  complain  of.    The  fanuly  had  borne 
with  me-and  borne  with  me.    When  we  reached  the 
tune  when  I  wa«  .uppwed  to  be  earning  my  own  Uvinr 
Md  my  father'f  aUowance  came  to  an  end,  my  mother 
who  had  tome  money  of  her  own,  kept  it  up.  She  would  be 
keepmg  it  up  still  if  ,he  knew  where  I  wa»-but  the  didn't 
know.    From  the  moment  of  leaving  Montreal  I  decided 
to  carry  out  Jerry's  injunction.    They  »   ,uld  neither  see 
my  face  nor  hear  my  name  again.    I  didn't  stop  to  con- 
«der  how  cruel  this  would  be  to  the  best  mother  a  man 
ever  had-to  say  nothing  of  the  best  father-or  rather. 
When  1  did  stop  to  consider  it  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  was 
taking  the  kindest  course.    I  had  no  confidence  in  myself 
or  in  the  future.     New  surroundings  and  associations 
would  not  give  me  a  new  heart,  whatever  hopes  those  who 
wished  me  well  might  be  building  on  the  change.    For  a 
new  heart  I  needed  something  which  I  hadn't  got  and  saw 
no  means  of  getting. 


CHAPTER  n 


SOMEWHERE  about  dutk  I  fell  asleep.    It  wa«  dark 
when  I  woke  up.    It  was  dark  and  still  and  sultry,  as 
it  often  is  in  New  York  in  the  middle  of  June. 

The  lamps  were  lit  in  the  Park,  and  in  their  glow 
shadowy  forms  moved  stealthily.  When  they  went  in 
twos  I  took  them  to  be  lovers;  when  they  went  alone  I 
put  them  down  as  prowlers  of  the  night.  I  didn't  know 
what  they  were  after,  but  whatever  it  might  be  I  was  sure 
it  was  no  good. 

Not  that  that  mattered  to  me!  I  had  long  been  in  a 
situation  where  I  couldn't  be  particular.  When  I  had 
risen  and  stretciied  myself  I,  too,  moved  stealthily,  dogged 
by  a  crime  I  hadn't  yet  conmiitted,  but  of  which  the  guilt 
was  already  in  the  air. 

As  I  had  nothing  by  ^hich  to  tell  the  time,  I  was  obliged 
to  wait  till  a  dock  strucL  I  hoped  it  was  eleven  at  least, 
but  when  the  sound  came  over  the  trees  it  was  only  nine. 
Only  nine,  and  I  could  do  nothing  before  one!  Nothing 
before  one,  and  nowhere  to  go!  Nowhere  to  go,  and  no 
food  to  eat,  and  not  a  drop  to  drink!  Doubtless  I  could 
have  found  water;  but  water  made  me  sick.  With  four 
hours  to  wait,  I  thought  again  of  the  dark  river  with  its 
velvety  current,  running  below  Greeley's  Slip. 

Aimlessly  I  drifted  toward  it— that  is,  I  drifted  toward 
Columbus  Circle,  whence  I  could  drift  farther  still  through 
squalid,  fedd,  dimly  lighted  streeu  down  to  the  water's 
«7 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 


>t  of  the 


:;r.&r."--?'"- ^Trs;.! 


easy,  pleasant  way  of 


an 


stepping 

nl,n„-j  .  ,      ''^'■<""'  the  adventure  I  had 

planned  was  not  without  its  fascination.    I  wanted  to 
see  what  .t  held  in  store.     If  it  held  nothing-weU  then 

ao  X  skulked  back  into  ?Se  depths  of  the  Park  aeain 
Those  who  went  as  twos  began  to  disappear,  and  the  Sv 
shadows  to  steal  along  more  funively.'^Now  and  th  ^c^^ 
of  the„  „,,hed  jne  or  hung  i„  the  distance  su^"s! 

tively.    It  was  not  like  any  of  the  encounters  that^e 

had  floated  up  from  some  evil  spirit  land,  into  wWch 
before  mornmg  they  would  float  down  again 

.^  whS  T  l7V-  I  ""  '.°  ^^^^^  ^'"^  Sreat  human  division 
nal     SJe  r  h  ."5'"°  ^-\-!a««d.  and  become  a  crin^- 

^psrwi^birg!-^"----"- 

If  my  head  had  not  been  swimming  I  might  at  the  Ia«- 

the  faculty  of  deconcentrafon.    It  was  fixed  on  the  thine 
before  me  m  such  a  way  that  I  couldn't  get  it  off     Fof 

SLt'^^L    T'  T  '^''"'"^  ^''^  Park,' irectlAo^e 
street  and  number  where  my  thoughts  were 

1  was  surprised  by  the  emptiness  and  silence  of  the 

Si/Z  "7\^°'  *"'  '""^  '■^'^  '  temembe'd  thaVat 
this  season  of  the  year  most  of  the  houses  would  be  clos.^ 
Qosed  they  were,  looking  dark  and  blank  and  forbiddj^: 


THE  CITY   OF   COMRADES 

I  happened  to  know  that  the  house  to  which  I  was  bound 
was  not  closed;  and  though  the  fact  that  there  were  so 
£ew  to  pass  in  the  streets  rendered  me  more  conspicuous, 
it  also  made  me  the  less  subject  to  observation. 

Indeed,  there  were  no  observers  at  all  when  I  approached 
the  black  spot  made  by  the  vacant  lot.  There  was  nothing 
but  myself  and  the  blackness.  Not  a  light  in  the  house  I 
Hardly  a  light  in  any  of  the  houses  round  about  I  Not 
a  footfall  on  the  pavementsi  If  ever  there  was  a  good 
opportunity  to  do  what  I  had  come  for,  it  was  mine. 

But  I  passed.  The  black  spot  frightened  me.  It  was 
like  a  black  gulf  into  which  I  might  sink  down.  I  re- 
passed. 

I  went  farther  up  the  street  and  took  myself  to  task. 
It  was  a  repetition  of  my  recoil  from  the  children  in  the 
afternoon.  I  must  have  the  nerve — or  I  must  own  to  my- 
self that  I  hadn't.  If  I  hadn't  it,  then  I  had  no  alternative 
but  Greeley's  Slip. 

I  turned  in  my  steps  and  passed  the  house  again.  If 
from  the  blank  windows  any  one  had  been  looking  out 
my  actions  would  have  been  suspicious.  I  went  far  down 
the  street,  and  came  back  again  far  up  it.  Then  when  I 
had  no  more  power  of  arguing  with  myself  I  suddenly 
found  my  footsteps  crushing  the  dusty,  sun-dried  shoots 
of  nettle  and  blue  succory.  I  was  in  the  vacant  lot. 
*  All  at  once  fear  left  me.  As  well  as  any  old  hand  in 
the  business  I  seemed  to  know  what  lay  before  me.  At 
every  second  some  low-down  prompting,  sprung  from 
nameless  depths  in  my  nature,  told  me  what  to  do. 

I  noted  in  the  first  place  how  accurate  the  experts  had 
been  as  to  light  and  shade.    The  house  stood  so  far  up 
on  one  of  the  long  avenues  that  the  buildings  were  thin- 
ning out.    So,  too,  the  street  lamps.    They  were  no  more 
19 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

Ain  in  the  proportion  of  two  to  three  at  compared  to 
their  numbers  half  a  mile  lower  down.  Ju«  here  they 
were  so  placed  that  not  a  ray  fell  into  the  three  or  four 
thousand  square  feet  which  had  probably  never  been  built 
upon  since  Manhattan  was  inhabited.  Even  the  wall  of 
the  house  was  windowless  on  this  side,  for  the  reason 
that  within  a  few  months  some  new  building  would  prob- 
ably block  the  outlook. 

Oice  I  had  crept  close  to  the  wall,  I  knew  I  presented 
neither  silhouette  nor  shade  to  any  chance  passer-by.  I 
could  feel  my  way  at  leisure,  cautiously  treading  burdock 
and  fireweed  underfoot.  I  came  to  the  low  wooden  fence, 
in  which  there  was  a  gate  for  tradesmen,  which  was  po*. 
ably  unlockedi  but  I  didn't  run  the  risk  of  a  dick.  With 
my  long  legs  a  stride  took  me  over  into  a  small  brick- 
paved  court. 

I  paused  to  reconnoter.  The  obscurity  here  was  m 
dense  that  only  my  architect's  instincts  told  me  where  the 
doors  and  windows  would  probably  be.  I  located  them 
by  degrees.  The  doors  I  let  alone.  The  windows  I  tried, 
first  one  and  then  another,  but  with  no  success.'  There 
was  probably  some  simple  fastening  that  I  could  haw 
dealt  with  had  I  had  a  pocket-knife,  but  the  one  I  had 
cam^  for  yearsi  had  long  since  been  lying  in  a  pawnshop, 
lo  reflect  I  sat  down  on  the  cover  of  a  bin  that  was  doubt- 
less  used  tor  refuse. 

A  footstep  alarmed  me.  It  was  hsavy,  measured,  slow. 
With  the  ease  of  a  snake  I  was  down  on  my  belly,  crawling 
toward  cover.  Cover  offered  itself  in  the  form  of  the 
single  shrub  that  the  court  contained-Jilac  or  syringa-^ 
growing  close  against  the  kitchen  wall.  Lovey  would  haw 
commended  the  silence  and  swiltnett  with  which  I  slipped 
behind  it. 

ao 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

The  footitep  receded,  iloir,  meatuied,  heavy.  Cominc 
to  t4ie  conclusion  that  it  waa  a  policeman  in  the  Avenue, 
I  railed  my  head.  I  had  no  lenie  of  queemeti  in  my 
situation.  It  teemed  ai  much  a  matter  of  coune  ai  if 
I  had  been  dcung  the  tame  tort  of  thing  ever  since  I  wai 
bom. 

There  was  apparently  a  providence  in  all  this,  for,  look- 
ing up,  I  spied  a  window  I  had  not  seen  before,  because  it 
was  hidden  by  the  shrub.  This,  if  any,  would  have  been 
neglected  by  the  servants  when  they  went  to  bed. 

With  scarcely  the  stirring  of  a  leaf  I  got  on  my  feet 
again — and,  lo!  the  miracle.  The  window  was  actually 
open.  I  had  nothing  to  do  but  push  it  a  few  inches 
Kigher,  drag  myself  up  imd  wriggle  in.  I  accomplished 
this  without  a  sound  that  could  be  detected  twenty  feet 
•way. 

Coming  down  on  my  hands  and  knees,  I  found  myself 
amid  the  odor  of  eatables,  chiefly  that  of  fruit.  I  rested  a 
minute  to  get  my  bearings,  which  I  did  by  the  sense  of 
■mell.  I  knew  I  must  be  in  a  sort  of  pantiy.  By  putting 
out  my  hands  carefully,  so  as  to  knock  nothing  over,  I 
perceived  that  it  was  little  more  than  a  closet  with  shelves. 
A  thrill  of  excitement  passed  through  me  from  head  to 
foot  when  my  hand  rested  on  an  apple. 

I  ate  the  apple  there  and  then,  kneeling  upright,  my 
toes  bent  under  me.  I  ate  another  and  another.  Feeling 
cautiously,  I  discovered  a  tin  box  in  which  there  were 
bread  and  cake.  I  ate  of  both.  Getting  softly  on  my 
feet,  I  groped  for  other  things,  which  proved  in  the  main 
to  be  no  more  than  tea,  coffee,  spices,  and  sta.-ch.  Then 
my  fingers  ran  over  a  strawlike  surface,  and  I  knew  I  had 
bold  of  a  demijohn. 

Smell  told  me  that  it  contained  sherry,  and  such  know!- 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

•4ie  of  houwkeeping  at  I  pounttd  »ugge«ed  that  it  wa» 
cookuig-sheror.    I  took  a  long  nng  If  it.    Two  U^ 

Sit' JSfJLer'  """  '  '"'^  ""-^'^  «^«  "  '^- 
It  occurred  to  me  that  this  was  a  point  at  which  I 

me,  and  I  de  ermmed  to  go  at  least  a  little  farther.  VeV 
reiy  stealthily  I  opened  the  door  ^' 

but  m  a  servants'  dmmg-ioom.  I  got  the  dim  outlines 
of  chairs  and  what  I  took  to  be  a  dr«ser  or  a  bTkt .:! 
Another  open  door  led  into  a  hall 

«5J0"T'''''^^  °^J^'  P'^"""'"*  °f '•cuse,  aided  me  at 

kitchen  th,    .undry,  and  the  back  staircase.     I  knew  the 

C    ^l  '7  ^^""^  »  ^°°'  ^'^^  ^"  dosed.    ZZ 

h^!,?TUu\ '""'"*  *=""*  '"""  anywhere  in  the 
W  The  kitchen  clock  uc^ed  loudly,  and  present 
mrtled  me  with  a  gurgle  and  a  chuckle  before  it  st^cfc 
one.  After  this  manifestation  I  had  to  wait  till  my  h«« 
stopped  thumping  and  my  nerves  were  quieted  beW 
^ntunng  on  the  stairs.  As  the  first  step  c'reaked.  I  kep^ 
dose  to  the  wall  to  get  a  finner  support  for  my  tr  Jd! 

Were  I  perceived  the  ghmmer  or  reflection  of  a  light.    It 
was  a  veor  dim  or  distant  light-but  it  was  a  light. 

I  stood  on  the  landing  and  waited.    If  there  were  peo- 
ple moving  about  I  should  hear  them  soon.     But  all  I  did 

stirof^K  "'^  ""^f"^  "'  ^«  — «'  -ho  ^^ 
Sleeping  on  the  topmost  floor. 

Creeping  a  little  farther  up.  I  discovered  that  the  light 
22 


THE  CITY   OF   COMRADES 

WM  in  a  bcdcoom— the  first  to  open  from  the  front  hall 
up-ftairi.  Between  the  front  hall  and  the  back  hall  the 
door  wai  ajar.  That  would  make  things  easier  for  me, 
and  I  dragged  myself  noiseleuly  to  the  top.  I  was  now 
at  the  head  of  the  first  flight  of  back  stairs,  and  looking 
into  the  master's  section  of  the  house.  Except  for  that 
one  dim  light  the  house  was  dark.  It  was  not,  however, 
so  dark  that  my  architect's  eye  couldn't  make  a  mental 
map  quite  sufficient  for  my  guidance. 

It  was  clearly  a  dwelling  that  had  been  added  to,  with 
•ome  rambling  characteristics.  The  first  few  feet  of  the 
front  hall  were  on  a  level  with  the  back  hall,  after  which 
came  a  flight  of  three  or  four  steps  to  a  higher  plane, 
which  ran  the  rest  of  the  depth  of  the  building  to  the  win- 
dow over  the  front  door.  In  the  faint  radiance  through 
this  window  I  could  discern  a  high-boy,  a  bureau,  and 
some  chairs  against  the  wall.  I  could  see,  too,  that  from 
this  higher  level  one  staircase  ran  down  to  the  front  door 
and  another  up  to  a  third  story.  What  was  chiefly  of 
moment  to  me  was  the  fact  that  the  bedroom  with  the 
light  was  lower  than  the  rest  of  this  part  of  the  house, 
and  somewhat  cut  off  from  it. 

With  movements  as  quiet  as  a  cat's  I  got  myself  where 
I  could  peep  into  the  bedroom  where  the  lamp  burned. 
It  proved  to  be  a  small  electric  lamp  with  a  rose-colored 
shade,  standing  beside  a  bed.  It  was  a  rose-colored 
room,  evidently  that  of  a  young  lady.  But  there  was  no 
young  lady  there.    There  was  no  one. 

The  fact  that  surprises  me  as  I  record  all  this  is  that  I 
was  so  extraordinarily  cool.  I  was  cooler  in  the  act  than 
I  am  in  the  memory  of  it.  I  walked  into  that  bedroom 
as  calmly  as  if  it  had  been  my  own. 

It  was  a  pretty  room,  with  the  usual  notes  of  photo- 
43 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

gnplM,  bibdott,  and  >owM«d  cimoniM  which  young 
WDnMn  Kke.  The  wall*  were  in  a  light,  cool  green  tet  off 
by  a  few  cobred  reproductioni  of  old  lulian  matter*. 
Over  the  tmall  white  virginal  bed  was  a  copy  of  Fra 
Angelico't  "Annunciation."  Two  windows,  one  of  which 
waa  a  bay,  were  shaded  by  loosely  hanging  rose-colored 
silt,  and  before  the  bay  window  the  curtains  were  drawn. 
Diagonally  across  the  comer  of  this  window,  but  within 
the  actual  room,  stood  a  simple  white  writing-desk,  with 
a  white  dressing-table  near  it,  but  against  the  wall.  On 
the  table  lay  a  gold-mesh  purse,  in  which  there  was 
money.  I  slipped  it  into  my  pocket,  with  some  satis- 
faction in  securing  the  first  fniiu  of  my  adventure. 

Wth  such  booty  as  this  it  again  occurred  to  me  to  be 
on  the  safe  side  and  to  go  back  by  the  way  I  came.  I 
was,  in  fact,  looking  round  me  to  see  if  there  was  any 
other  small  valuable  object  I  could  lift  before  departing 
when  I  heard  a  door  open  in  some  distant  part  of  the 
house — and  voices. 

They  were  women's  voices,  or,  rather,  as  I  speedily 
inferred,  girls'  voices.  By  listening  intently  I  drew  the 
conclusion  that  two  girls  had  come  out  of  a  room  on  the 
third  floor  and  were  coming  down  the  stairs. 

It  was  the  minute  to  make  off,  and  I  tried  to  do  so. 
I  might  have  effected  my  escape  had  I  not  been  checked 
by  the  figure  of  a  man  looming  up  suddenly  before  me. 
He  sprang  out  of  nowhere— a  tall,  slender  man,  in  a  dark- 
blue  suit,  with  trousers  baggy  at  the  knees,  and  wearing 
an  old  golfing-cap.  I  jumped  back  from  him  in  terror, 
only  to  find  that  it  was  my  own  reflection  in  the  pier-glass. , 
But  the  few  seconds'  delay  lost  me  my  chance  to  get 
away. 

By  the  time  I  had  tiptoed  to  the  door  the  voices  were 
_   H 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 


«a  the  nma  floor  u  mytdf.  Two  girb  wen  advandni 
akmg  the  haU,  evidently  making  their  way  to  thia  cham- 
ber. My  retreat  beiag  cut  off,  I  looked  wildly  about 
for  a  place  in  which  to  hide  myiclf.  In  the  iniunta  at 
my  diipoial  I  could  ditcover  nothing  more  remote  than 
the  bay  window,  icreened  by  itt  looie  rot»<olored  hang- 
ing!. By  the  time  the  young  ladies  were  on  the  thresh- 
old I  was  established  there,  with  the  silk  sections  pulled 
together  and  held  tightly  in  my  hand. 

The  first  words  I  heard  were:  "But  it  will  seem  so 
like  a  habit.    Men  will  be  afraid  of  3rou." 

This  voice  was  light,  silvery,  and  staccato.  That  which 
replied  had  a  deep  mezzo  quality*  without  being  quite 
contralto. 

"They  won't  be  nearly  so  much  afraid  of  me,"  it  said, 
fretfully,  "as  I  am  of  them.  I  wish — I  wish  they'd  let 
me  alone!" 

"Oh,  well,  they  won't  do  that — not  yet  awhile;  unless, 
as  I  say,  they  see  you're  hopeless.  Really,  dear,  when  a 
girl  breaks  a  third  engagement — " 

"They  must  see  that  she  woiddn't  do  it  if  she  didn't 
have  to.    Here— this  is  the  hook  that  always  bothers  me." 

There  were  tears  in  the  mezzo  voice  now,  with  a  hint 
of  exasperation  that  might  have  been  due  to  the  lover 
or  the  hook,  I  couldn't  be  sure  which. 

"But  that's  what  I  don't  see—" 

"You  don't  see  it  because  you  don't  know  Stephen— 
that  is,  you  don't  kaow  him  well." 

"But  from  what  I  do  know  of  him—" 

"He  seems  very  nice.  Yes,  of  course  I  But,  good 
Heavens!  Elsie,  I  want  a  husband  who's  something  more 
thaii  very  niceT' 

"And  yet  that's  pretty  good,  as  husbands  go." 
s  H 


I 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

7'J  .**."'*  '"**  '  '•«'"'  mtniui  than  m  hiuband* 
|o  I  fht'n't  marry  any  one." 

.'.T''.''''  •*•"•  *°  "*  ******  ««y  likely  to  happen." 
"So  It  teemt  to  me." 

The  «Ienve  that  followed  wat  full  of  wft,  iwiihing 
■ound*.  which  I  judged  to  come  from  the  taking  off  of 
a  dress  and  the  putting  on  of  some  sort  of  negligfe.  From 
my  experience  of  the  habits  of  giris,  as  illustrated  by  my 
listers  and  their  friends,  I  supposed  that  they  were  lend- 
ing each  other  services  in  the  processes  of  undoing.  The 
girl  with  the  meno  voice  had  gone  up  to  Elsie's  room  to 
undo  her;  Elsie  had  come  down  to  render  similar  assist. 
ance.  There  is  probably  a  psychological  connection  be- 
tween this  intimate  act  and  confidence,  since  girls  most 
truty  bare  their  hearts  to  each  other  when  they  ought 
to  be  gomg  to  bed.  ^^ 

The  mezzo  yo-ng  lady  was  moving  about  the  rxxmi 
When  the  conversation  was  uken  up  again. 

"I  don't  understand,"  Elsie  complained,  "why  you 
should  have  got  engaged  to  Stephen  in  the  first  place." 
1  don  t,  eithtr"— she  was  quite  near  me  now,  and 
threw  something  that  might  have  been  a  brooch  or  a  chain 
on  the  little  white  desk— "except  on  the  ground  that  I 
wanted  to  try  him." 
"Try  him  i    What  do  you  mean  ?" 
"Well,  what's  an  engagement?    Isn't  it  »  kind  of  ex- 

'I.T'"*,!  .^"^  *"  '*  "'*'■  *°  mamage  as  you  can, 
while  still  keeping  free  to  draw  back.  To  me  it's  been 
like  gomg  down  to  the  edge  of  the  water  in  which  you 
can  commit  suicide,  and  finding  it  so  cold  that  you  ko 
home  again." 

"Don't  you  ever  mean  to  be  married  at  aU?"  Elsie  de- 
manded, impatiently. 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

"I  don't  mean  to  be  manied  till  I'm  rare." 

Elne  bunt  out  indignantly:  "Regina  Bany,  that't  the 
iBott  puiillanimoui  thing  I  ever  heard.    You  might  at 
well  tay  you'd  never  croft  the  Atlantic  unlen  you  were 
._  rare  the  ihip  would  reach  the  other  side." 

"My  trouble  about  crossing  the  Atlantic  M  in  making 
up  my  mind  whether  or  not  I  want  to  go  on  board.  One 
might  be  willing  to  risk  the  second  step,  but  one  can't 
risk  the  first.  Even  the  hymn  that  says  'One  step  enough 
for  ine'  implies  that  at  least  you  know  what  that's  to  be." 

"You  mean  that  you  balk  at  marriage  in  any  case." 

"I  mean  that  I  balk  at  marriage  with  any  of  the  men 
I've  been  engaged  to.  I  must  say  that;  and  I  can't  say 
more." 

During  another  brief  silence  I  surmised  that  Regina 
Barry  had  seated  herself  before  the  dressing-table  and  was 
probably  doing  something  to  her  hair.  I  wish  I  could 
«ay  he- :  tiuc  in  my  eavesdropping  I  experienced  a  sense 
of  shame;  but  I  can't.  Whatever  creates  a  sense  of 
shame  had  been  warped  in  me.  The  moral  transitions 
that  had  turned  me  into  a  burglar  had  been  gradual  but 
sure.  With  the  gold-mesh  purse  in  my  pocket  a  burglar 
I  had  become,  and  I  felt  no  more  repugnance  to  the  busi- 
ness than  I  did  to  that  of  the  architect.  Notwithstanding 
the  natural  masc^iline  interest  these  young  ladies  stirred 
"*  in  me,  I  meant  to  wait  till  they  had  separated — gone  to 
bed — and  fallen  asleep.  Then  I  would  slip  out  from  my 
hiding-place,  swipe  the  brooch  or  the  chain  that  had  been 
thrown  on  the  desk,  and  go. 

"What  was  the  matter  wit'-  :  le  first  man?"  Elsie  be- 
gan again. 

"I  don't  know  whether  it  was  the  matter  with  him  ot 
with  me.    I  didn't  trust  him." 
27 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 


"I  ihould  say  that  was  the  matter  with  him.  And  tb« 
next  man?" 

"Nothing.    I  simply  couldn't  have  lived  with  him." 

"And  what's  wrong  with  Stephen  is  that  he's  no  more 
than  vety  nice.    I  see." 

"Oh  no,  you  don't  see,  dearl  There's  a  lot  more  to 
it  than  all  that,  only  I  can't  explain  it."  I  fancied  that 
(he  wheeled  round  in  her  chair  and  faced  her  companion. 
"The  long  and  short  of  it  is  that  I've  never  met  the 
man  with  whom  I  could  keep  house.  I  can  fall  in  love 
with  them  for  a  while — I  can  have  them  going  and  coming 
— I  can  welcome  them  and  say  good-by  to  them — but 
iriien  it's  a  question  of  all  welcome  and  no  good-by—* 
well,  the  man's  got  to  be  different  from  any  I'v* 
•een  yet." 

"You'll  end  by  not  getting  any  one  at  all." 

"Which,  from  my  point  of  view,  don't  you  see,  won't 
be  an  unmixed  evil.  Having  lived  happily  for  twentjr- 
three  years  without  a  husband,  I  don't  see  why  I  should 
throw  away  a  perfectly  good  bone  for  the  most  enticing 
shadow  that  ever  was." 

"I  don't  believe  you're  human."  Before  there  couU 
be  a  retort  to  this  Elsie  went  on  to  ask,  "How  did  poor 
Stephen  take  itf" 

"Well,  he  didn't  go  into  fits  of  laughter.  He  took  k 
more  or  less  lying  down.    If  he  hadn't — " 

"If  he  hadn't— what?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  The  least  little  bit  of  fight  on  his 
part— or  even  contempt — " 

As  this  sentence  remained  unfinished  I  could  hea* 
Elsie  rise. 

"Well,  I'm  off   c  bed,"  she  yawned, 
jroa  have  breakfast?" 

as 


"What  time  im 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

There  wat  tome  little  discuision  of  household  arnuic»- 
uifta,  after  which  they  said  their  good  nights. 

With  Elsie's  departure  I  began  for  the  first  time  to 
be  uncomfortable.  I  can't  express  myself  othervrise  than 
to  say  that  as  long  as  she  was  there  I  felt  I  had  a  chap- 
eron. In  spite  of  the  fact  that  I  had  become  a  professional 
burglar  the  idea  of  being  left  alone  with  an  innocent  young 
lady  in  her  bedroom  filled  me  with  dismay. 

I  was  almost  on  the  point  of  making  a  bolt  for  it  when 
I  heard  Elsie  call  out  from  the  hallway:  "Ugh!  How  dark 
and  poky!    For  mercy's  sake,  come  up  with  me!" 

Miss  Barry  lingered  at  the  dressing-table  long  enough 
to  ask:  "Wouldn't  you  rather  sleep  in  mother's  room? 
That  communicates  with  this,  with  only  a  little  passage 
in  between.    The  bed  is  made  up." 

"Oh  no,"  Elsie's  staccato  came  back.  "I  don't  mind 
being  up  there,  and  my  things  are  spread  out;  only  it 
seems  so  creepy  to  climb  all  those  stairs." 

"Wait  a  minute." 

She  sprang  up.  I  breathed  freely.  My  sense  of  pio- 
priety  was  saved.  The  voices  were  receding  along  the 
front  hall.  Once  the  young  ladies  had  begun  to  mount 
the  stairs  I  would  slip  out  by  the  back  hall  and  get  off. 
Relaxing  my  hold  on  the  silk  hangings  I  stepped  out  cau- 
tiously. 

My  first  thought  was  for  the  objects  I  had  heard 
thrown  down  with  a  rattle  on  the  writing-desk.  They 
proved  to  be  a  string  of  small  pearls,  a  diamond  pin,  and 
some  rings  of  which  I  made  no  inspectioi.  before  sweep- 
ing them  all  into  my  pocket. 

I  was  ready  now  to  steal  away,  but,  to  my  vexation, 
the  incorrigible  maidens  had  begun  to  talk  love-affaiia 
again  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase  leading  up  to  the  thiid 
39 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

floor     They  had  also  turaed  on  the  hall  light,  so  that 
my  chances  were  diminished  for  getting  ^'waj'  "nseen 

Knowing,  however,  that  sooner  or  later  they  wou  d 
havTto  go  up  the  next  flight.  1  stood  by  the  wntmg-desk 
aiir  waited.  I  was  not  nervous;  I  was  not  alarmed. 
As  a  matter  of  fact  the  success  of  my  undertaking  up  to 
the  present  point,  together  with  the  action  o  food  and 
wine!  combined  to  make  me  exerted  .»"<»  >^f  "°-j^  J, 
chuckled  in  advance  over  the  mystification  of  Miss 
Regina  Barry,  who  would  find  on  returning  to  her  room 
That  her  rings,  her  necklet,  and  her  gold-mesh  purse  had 
melted  into  the  atmosphere.  ca.^*^ 

In  sheer  recklessness  I  was  now  guilty  of  a  bit  of  deviltry 
before  which  I  would  have  hesitated  had  I  had  time  to 
give  it  a  second  thought.    On  the  desk  there  was  a  sc^p 
of  blank  paper  and  a  pen.    Stooping,  I  printed  m  the  neat 
block  letters  I  had  once  been  accustomed  to  mscnbe 
below  a  plan: 
Thtre  are  m.n  different  from  those  you  have  seen  hitherto.    Wait. 
This  I  pinned  to  the  pincushion  on  the  dressing-table, 
berinning  at  once  to  creep  toward  the  door,  so  as  to  seize 
Ae  first  opportunity  of  slipping  down  the  back  stairs. 
But  again  I  was  frustrated.  . 

"I'm  all  right  now,"  I  heard  Elsie  say.  reassuringly. 
"Don't  come  up.    Go  back  and  go  to  bed. 

Miss  Barry  spoke  as  she  returned  along  the  h^U  toward 
her  room:  "The  cook  sleeps  in  the  next  room  to  you, 
K,  that  if  you're  afraid  in  the  night  you've  only  to  hammer 
Tn  the  wall.     But  you  needn't  be.    This  house  is  as  safe 

"I'haTbarely  time  to  get  into  the  bay  window  again 

and  pull  the  curtains  to. 

30 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

Some  five  minutes  followed,  during  which  I  heard  the 
opening  and  shutdng  of  drawers  and  closets  and  the  swish 
and  frou-frou  of  skirts.  I  began  to  curse  my  idiocy 
in  fastening  that  silly  bit  of  writing  to  the  pincushion. 
My  only  hope  lay  in  the  possibility  that  she  would  ga 
to  bed  and  to  sleep  without  seeing  it.  ' 

With  hearing  grown  extraordinarily  acute  I  could  trace 
every  mov.-ment  she  made  about  the  room.  Presently  I 
knew  she  had  come  back  to  the  dressing-table  again. 
Pulling  up  a  chair,  she  sat  down  before  it,  to  finish,  I  sup- 
pose, the  arranging  of  her  hair. 

For  a  few  seconds  there  was  a  silence,  during  which 
I  -jould  hear  the  thumping  of  my  heart.  Then  came  the 
faint  rattling  of  paper.  I  knew  when  she  read  the  thing 
by  the  slight  catch  in  her  breath.  I  expected  more  than 
that.  I  thought  she  would  call  out  to  her  friend  or 
otherwise  give  an  alarm.  If  she  went  to  a  telephone  to 
summon  the  police  I  decided  to  make  a  dash  for  it. 
Indeed,  I  meant  to  make  a  dash  for  it  as  it  was,  as  soon 
as  I  knew  her  next  move. 

But  of  all  the  next  moves,  the  one  she  made  was  the 
one  I  had  least  counted  on.  With  a  sudden  tug  at  the 
hangings  she  pulled  them  apart — and  I  was  before  her. 

I  was  before  her  and  she  was  before  me.  It  is  this 
latter  detail  of  which  I  have  the  most  vivid  recollection. 
In  the  matter  of  time  all  other  recollections  of  the 
moment  seem  to  come  after  that  and  to  be  subsidiary 
to  it. 

My  immediate  impression  was  of  two  enormous,  won- 
derful, burning  eyes,  full  of  amazement.  Apart  from  the 
eyes  I  hardly  saw  anythi  g.  It  was  as  if  the  light  of  a. 
dark  lantern  had  been  suddenly  turned  on  me  and  I  was 
blinded  by  the  blaze.  I  was  blinded  by  the  blaze  and 
3» 


THE   CITY   OF   COMRADES 

ihriveled  up  in  it.    No  words  can  do  justice  to  my  sud- 
den sense  of  beinj  a  contemptible,  loathsome  tepvit. 

'"Shi"  was  the  first  sound  that  came  from  her.  bhe 
raised  her  hand.  "Don't  make  a  noise  or  you'll  frighten 
my  friend.    She's  nervous  already." 

Instinctively  I  pulled  off  my  cap,  stepping  out  of  my 
hiding-place  into  the  middle  of  the  room.  As  I  did  so 
Ae  recoiled,  supporting  herself  by  a  hand  on  the  wr.tmg- 
desk.  Now  that  the  discovery  was  made,  I  could  sec 
her  grow  pale,  while  the  hand  on  the  desk  trembled. 
"You  mustn't  be  afraid,"  !  began  to  whisper. 
"I'm  not  afraid,"  she  whispered  back;  'but— but 
tfhat  are  you  doing  here?" 

"I'll  show  you,"  I  returned,  with  shamefaced  qmet- 
ne-8.  "I  shall  also  show  you  that  if  you'll  let  me  go 
without  giving  an  alarm  you  won't  be  sorry." 

Pulling  all  the  things  I  had  stolen  out  of  my  pocket, 
I  showered  them  on  the  dressing-table. 
"Oh!" 

The  smothered  exclamation  made  it  plain  to  me  that 
the  hadn't  missed  the  articles. 

"May  I  ask  you  to  verify  themr  I  went  on.  it 
you  should  find  later  that  something  had  disappeared, 
I  shouldn't  like  you  to  think  that  I  had  earned  it 

'"she  m.ide  a  feint  at  examining  the  jewelry,  but  I  <»uld 
see  that  she  was  incapable  of  making  anything  like  a 
count.    It  was  I  who  insisted  on  going  over  the  objects 

one  by  one. 

"ITiere's  this,"  I  said,  touching  the  gold-mesh  purse, 

but  not  picking  it  up.    'I  see  there's  money  in  it;  but 

it  has  not  been  opened.    Then  there  s  this,     I  added, 

indicating  the  pearl  necklet;  "and  this,'  which  was  the 

32 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

brooch.  "The  rings,"  I  continued,  "I  don't  know  any- 
thing about.  There  are  three  here.  That's  all  I  remem- 
ber seeing;  but  I  didn't  notice  in  particular." 

She  said,  in  a  breathless  whisper,  "That's  all  there 
were." 

"Then  may  I  ask  if  you  mean  to  let  me  go?" 

"How  can  I  stop  you?" 

"Oh,  in  two  or  three  ways.  You  could  call  your  ser- 
vants, or  you  could  ring  up  the  police — " 

Her  big,  burning  eyes  were  fixed  on  me  hypnotically. 
The  color  began  to  come  back  to  her  cheeks,  but  she 
trembled  still. 

"How — how  did  you  get  iu?" 

I  explained  to  her. 

"And  the  only  thing  I've  taken,"  I  went  on,  "is  the 
food  I  ate  and  the  wine  I  drank;  but  if  you  knew  how 
much  I  needed  them — " 

"Were  you  hungry?" 

"I  hadn't  eaten  anything  for  two  days,  and  very  little 
foe  two  days  before  that." 

"Then  you're  not — ^you're  not  one  of  those  gentleman 
burglars  who  do  this  sort  of  thing  out  of  bravado?" 

"As  we  see  in  novels  or  plays.  I  don't  think  you'll  find 
many  of  them  about.  I'm  a  burglar,"  I  pursued,  "or  I — 
I  meant  to  be  one — but  I'm  not  a  gentleman." 

"You  speak  like  a  gentleman." 

"Unfortunately,  a  gentleman  is  not  made  by  speech. 
A  gentleman  could  never  be  in  the  predicament  in  which 
you've  caught  me." 

"Well,  then,  you  were  a  gentleman  once." 

"My  father  was  a  gentleman — and  is." 

"English?" 

"I'd  rather  not  tell  you.    Now  that  I've  restored  the 
33 


THE   CITY   OF   COMRADES 

things,  if  you'll  give  me  your  word  that  I  sha'n't  be 
molested  I  shall — " 
"You  sha'n't  be  molested,  only—" 
As  she  hesitated  I  insisted,  "Only  what,  may  I  ask?" 
Her  manner  was  a  mixture  of  embarrassment  and  pity. 
She  had  not  hitherto  taken  her  eyes  from  me  since  we 
had  begun  to  speak.  Now  she  let  them  wander  away; 
or,  rather,  she  let  them  shift  away,  to  return  to  me  swiftly, 
as  if  she  couldn't  trust  me  without  watching  me.  By 
this  time  she  was  trembling  so  violently,  too,  that  she 
was  obliged  to  grasp  the  back  of  a  chair  to  steady  her- 
self. She  was  too  little  to  be  tall,  and  yet  too  tall  to 
be  considered  little.  The  filmy  thing  she  wore,  with  its 
long,  loose  sleeves,  gave  her  some  of  the  appearance 
of  an  angel,  only  that  no  angel  ever  had  this  bright, 
almost  hectic  color   in  the   cheeks,   and   these  scarlet 

"Was  it,"  she  asked,  speaking,  as  we  both  did,  in  low 
tones,  and  rapidly— "was  it  because  you— you  had  no 
money  that  you  did  this?"  ^^ 

I  smiled  faintly.    "That  was  it  exactly;  but  now— 
"Then  won't  you  let  me  give  you  some?" 
I  still  had  enough  of  the  man  about  me  to  straighten 
myself  up  and  say:  "Thanks,  no.    It's  very  kind  of  you; 
but— but  the  reasons  which  make  it  impossible  for  me 
to— to  steal  it  make  it  equally  impossible  for  me  to  take 

it  as  a  gift." 

"  But  why-^why  was  it  impossible  for  you  to  steal  it, 
when  you  had  come  here  to  do  it? 

"I  suppose  it  was  seeing  the  owner  of  it  face  to  face. 

I'd  sunk  low  enough  to  steal  from  some  one  I  couldn't 

visualize— but  what's  the  use?    It's  mere  hair-splitting. 

Just  let  me  say  that  this  is  my  first  attempt,  and  it  hasn't 

34 


THE   CITY   OF   COMRADES 

tucceeded.    I  may  do  better  next  time  if  I  can  get  up 
the  nerve." 
"Oh,  but  there  won't  be  a  next  time." 

"That  we  shall  have  to  see." 

"Suppose" — the  mixture  of  embarrassment  and  pity 
made  it  hard  for  her  to  speak — "suppose  I  said  I  was 
sorry  for  you." 

"You  don't  have  to  say  it.  I  see  it.  It's  something 
I  shall  never  forget  as  long  as  I  live." 

"Well,  since  I'm  sorry  for  you,  won't  you  let 
me — r 

"No,"  I  interrupted,  firmly.  "I'm  grateful  for  your 
pity;  I'll  accept  that;  but  I  won't  take  anything  else." 
I  began  moving  toward  the  door.  "Since  you're  good 
enough  to  let  me  go,  I  had  better  be  off;  but  I  can't  do 
it  without  thanking  you." 

For  the  first  time  she  smiled  a  little.  Even  in  that  dim 
light  I  could  see  it  was  what  in  normal  conditions  would 
be  commonly  called  a  generous  smile,  full,  frank,  and 
kindly.  Just  now  it  was  little  more  than  a  quivering  of 
the  long  scarlet  lips.  She  glanced  toward  the  little  heap 
of  things  on  the  desk. 

"If  it  comes  to  that,  I  have  to  thank  you." 

I  raised  my  hand  deprecatingly. 

"Don't." 

I  had  almost  reached  the  threshold  when  her  words 
made  me  turn. 

"Do  you  know  who  I  am?" 

"I  think  I  do,"  was  all  I  could  reply. 

"Well,  then,  why  shouldn't  you  come  back  later — in 
some  more  usual  manner— and  let  me  see  if  there  isn't 
something  I  could  do  for  you?" 

"Do  for  me  in  what  way.?" 
3S 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

"In  the  way  of  getting  you  work— or  lomething." 

My  heart  had  leaped  up  for  a  minute,  but  now  it  felL 
Vfhy  it  should  have  done  either  I  cannot  lay,  line*  I 
could  be  nothing  to  her  but  a  fool  who  had  tried  to  be  a 
thief,  and  couldn't,  as  we  say  in  our  common  idiom,  get 
away  with  it. 

I  thanked  her  again. 

"But  you've  done  a  great  deal  for  me  as  it  is,"  I  added. 
"I  couldn't  ask  for  more."  Somewhat  disconnectedly  I 
continued,  "I  think  you're  the  pluckiest  girl  I  ever  saw 
not  to  have  been  afraid  of  me." 

"Oh,  it  wasn't  pluck.  I  saw  at  once  that  you  wouldn't 
do  me  any  harm." 

"How?" 

"In  general.  I  was  surprised.  I  was  excited.  In  a 
way  I  was  overcome.  But  I  wasn't  afraid  of  you.  If 
you'd  been  a  tramp  or  a  colored  man  or  anything  like 
that  it  would  have  been  different.  But  one  isn't  afraid 
of  a — of  a  gentleman." 

"But  I'm  not  a—" 

"Well  then,  a  man  who  has  a  gentleman's  tradirions. 
You'd  better  go  now,"  she  whispered,  suddenly.  "If 
you  want  to  come  back  as  I've  suggested — any  time  to- 
morrow forenoon — I'd  speak  to  my  father — " 

"Not  about  this?"  I  whispered,  hurriedly. 

"No,  not  about  this.  This  had  better  be  just  between 
ourselves.  I  shall  never  say  anything  to  any  one  about 
it,  and  I  advise  you  to  do  the  same."  I  had  made  a  low 
bow,  preparatory  to  getting  out,  when  she  held  up  the 
scrap  of  paper  she  had  crumpled  in  her  hand.  "Why 
did  you  write  this?" 

But  I  got  out  of  the  room  without  giving  a  reply. 

I  was  descending  the  back  stairs  when  I  heard  a  door 
36 


THE   CITY   OF   COMRADES 

open  on  the  third  floor  and  Eliie't  voice  call  out,  "R^ina, 
are  you  talking  to  anybody  down  there?" 

There  wai  a  tremor  in  the  mezzo  a«  it  replied:  "N-no. 
I'm  juit — I'm  ju«  moving  about." 
^  "Well,  for  Heaven'i  take  go  to  bedl  It'«  after  two 
o'clock.  I  never  wa«  in  a  hou$e  like  thi*  in  all  my  life 
before.  It  seemi  to  be  full  of  people  crawling  round 
everywhere.  I  think  I'll  come  down  to  your  mother'a 
bed,  after  all."  ^ 

"Do,''  was  the  only  word  I  heard  as  I  stole  into  the 
aervants'  dining-room,  then  into  the  closet  with  shelves, 
where  I  shut  the  door  softly.  A  few  seconds  later  I  was 
out  on  the  cool  ground,  in  the  dark,  behind  the  shrub. 

I  lay  there  almost  breathlessly,  not  because  I  wa» 
unable  to  get  up,  but  because  I  couldn't  drag  myself  away. 
I  wanted  to  go  over  the  happenings  of  the  last  hour  and 
■eal  them  in  my  memory.  They  were  both  terrible  to 
me  and  beautiful. 

I  had  been  there  some  fifteen  minutes  when  I  heard 
the  open  window  above  me  closed  gently  and  the  fasten- 
ing snapped.  I  knew  that  again  she  was  near  me,  though, 
as  before,  she  didn't  suspect  my  presence.  I  wondered 
if  the  chances  of  life  would  ever  bring  us  so  close  to  each 
other  again. 

Above  me,  where  the  shrub  detached  itself  a  little 
from  the  wall  of  the  house,  I  could  see  the  stars.  Lying 
on  my  back,  with  my  head  pillowed  on  the  crook  of  my 
arm,  I  watched  them  till  it  seemed  to  me  they  began  to 
pale.  At  the  same  time  I  caught  a  thinning  in  the  texture 
of  the  darkness.  I  got  up  with  the  silence  in  which  I  had 
lain  down.  Crossing  the  brick-paved  yard  and  striding 
>  again  in  the  vacant  1 


It 


was  not  yet  dawn,  but  it  was  the  dark-gray  hour 


37 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

ivhich  telli  that  dawn  it  coming.  I  wat  obliged  to  take 
more  accurate  precaudoni  than  before,  ai,  cnuhing  the 
tangle  of  nettle,  burdock,  fireweed,  and  blue  luccory,  I 
crept  along  in  the  shadow  of  the  houte  wall  to  regain  the 
empty  itreet. 


CHAPTER  III 


'jPHE  city  wai  beginning  to  wake.     Mysteriout  cart* 

*  and  wagons  rumbled  along  the  neighboring  avenuei. 
From  a  parallel  street  came  the  buzz  and  dang  of  a  lonely 
early-morning  electric  car.  Running  footsteps  would 
have  startled  one  if  they  had  not  been  followed  by  the 
clinking  of  peaceful  milk-bottles  in  back  yards.  Clank- 
ing off  into  the  distance  one  heard  the  tread  of  solitary 
pedestrians  bent  on  errands  that  stirred  the  curiosity. 
Here  and  there  the  lurid  flames  of  torches  lit  up  com- 
panies of  gnomelike  men  digging  in  the  roadways. 

Going  toward  Greeley's  Slip,  I  skirted  the  Park,  though 
it  made  the  walk  longer.  Under  the  dark  trees  men  were 
lying  on  benches  and  on  the  grass,  but  for  reasons  I 
couldn't  yet  analyze  I  refused  to  thrust  myself  among 
them.  A  few  hours  earlier  I  would  have  done  this  with- 
out thinking,  as  without  fear;  but  something  had  hap- 
pened to  me  that  now  made  any  such  course  impossible. 

My  immediate  need  was  to  get  back  to  poor  old  Lovey 
and  lie  down  by  his  side.  That  again  was  beyond  my 
power  to  analyze.  I  suppose  it  was  something  like  a 
homing  instinct,  and  Lovey  was  all  there  was  to  wel- 
come me. 

"Is  that  you,  sonny?"  he  asked,  sleepily,  as  I  stooped 
to  creep  into  the  cubby-hole  which  a  chance  arrangement 
of  planks  made  in  a  pile  of  lumber. 
39 


THE  CITY  OF. COMRADES 

"Yet,  Lovey," 

"Glad  ye've  come," 

When  I  had  fttetched  myielf  out  I  felt  him  tnuggte  a 
little  nearer  me. 

"You  don't  mind,  fonny,  do  youf 

"No,  Lovey.    It't  all  right.    Go  to  ileep  again." 

For  myself,  I  could  do  nothing  but  lie  and  watch  the 
ooming  of  the  dawn.  I  could  see  it  beating  itself  into  the 
darkness  long  before  there  was  anything  to  which  one 
could  give  the  name  of  light.  It  was  like  a  succession  of 
great  cosmic  throbs,  after  each  of  which  the  veil  wai  a 
little  more  translucent. 

In  my  nostrils  was  the  tweet,  penetrating  smell  of  lum- 
ber, subtly  laden  with  the  memories  of  the  days  when  I 
was  a  boy.  The  Canadian  differs  from  the  American 
largely,  I  think,  in  the  closeness  of  his  forest-and-farm 
associations.  Not  that  the  American  hasn't  the  farm  and 
the  forest,  too,  but  he  has  moved  farther  away  from  them. 
The  mill,  the  factory,  and  the  office  have  supplanted  them 
—in  imagination  when  not  in  fact,  and  in  fact  when  not 
in  imagination.  If  the  woods  call  him  he  has  to  go  to 
them— for  a  week,  or  two,  or  three  at  a  time;  but  he  come* 
back  inevitably  to  a  life  in  which  the  woods  play  little 
part.  The  Canadian  never  leaves  that  life.  The  primeval 
still  enters  into  his  cities  and  his  thoughts.  Some  day  it 
may  be  different;  but  as  yet  he  is  the  son  of  rivers,  lakes, 
and  forests.  There  is  always  in  him  a  strain  of  the 
voyagtuT.  The  true  Canadian  never  ceases  to  smell  bal- 
sam or  to  hear  the  lapping  of  water  on  wild  shores. 

It  was  balsam  that  I  smelled  now.    The  lapping  of 

water  soothed  me  a*  the  river,  too,  began  to  wake.    It 

woke  with  a  faint  noise  of  paddle-wheels,  followed  by  a 

bellow  like  the  caU  of  lome  tea  monster  to  iu  mate. 

40 


^ 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

Kight  below  me  and  cloee  to  the  ilip  I  heard  the  meamired 
dip  of  oari.    Hoarse  calli  of  men,  from  deck  to  deck  or 
from  deck  to  dock,  had  a  weird,  watchful  lound,  at  though 
the  darkneu  were  peopled  with  Flying  Dutchmen.  Lighta 
glided  up  and  down  the  river-^which  itielf  remained  un- 
seen— mostly  gold  lights,  but  now  and  then  a  colored 
one.    Giains  of  lights  fringed  the  New  Jersey  shoie. 
where,  far  away,  sleepless  factories  threw  up  dim  red 
iares.    A  rising  southeast  wind  not  only  hid  the  start 
asider  banks  of  clouds,  but  went  whistling  eerily  round 
ifce  comers  of  the  lumber-piles.    The  scent  of  pine,  and 
ail  the  pungent,  nameless  odors  of  the  riverside,  began  to 
be  infused  with  the  smell— if  it  is  a  smell— of  coming  rain. 
I  can  best  describe  myself  as  in  a  kind  of  trance  in 
which  past  and  present  were  merged  into  one,  and  in 
which  there  seemed  to  be  no  period  when  two  wonderful, 
burning  eyes  had  not  been  watching  me  in  pit  ■  r.nd  amaze- 
ment.   As  long  as  I  lived  I  knew  they  would  watch  me 
still.    In  their  light  I  got  my  life's  significance.    In  their 
light  I  saw  myself  as  a  boy  again,  with  a  boy's  vision  of 
the  future.    The  smell  of  lumber  carried  me  back  to  our 
old  summer  home  on  the  banks  of  the  Ottawa,  where  I 
had  had  my  dreams  of  what  I  should  do  when  I  was  big. 
All  boys  being  patriotic,  they  were  dreams  not  merely 
of  myself,  but  of  my  country.    It  worried  me  that  it  was 
not  sufficiently  on  the  great  world  map,  that  apart  from 
itt  lakes  and  prairies  and  cataracts  it  had  no  wonders 
to  show  mankind.    As  we  were  a  traveling  family,  I  was 
accustomed  to  wonders  in  other  countries,  and  easily 
annoyed  when  one  set  of  cousins  in  New  York  and  an- 
other in  England  took  it  for  granted  that  we  lived  in  an 
Uluma  Thule  of  snow.    I  meant  to  show  them  tlM 
oontraiy. 

*  41 


4* 


1 1 


THE   CITY   OF   COMRADES 

From  the  beginning  my  ardors  and  indignations  tran»- 
lated  themselves  into  stone.  I  had  seen  St.  Peter's  in 
one  country,  St.  Paul's  in  another,  and  Chartres  and 
chateaux  in  a  third.  I  had  seen  New  York  transforming 
itself  under  my  very  eyes — the  change  began  when  I  was 
in  my  teens — into  a  town  of  prodigious  towers  which  in 
themselves  were  symbolicaL  Then  I  would  go  home  to 
a  red-gray  city,  marvelously  placed  between  river  and 
mountain,  where  any  departure  from  its  original  French 
austerity  was  likely  to  be  in  the  direction  of  the  exuber- 
ant, the  unchastened,  the  fantastic.  All  new  buildings  in 
Canada,  as  in  most  of  the  States,  lacked  "school." 

"School"  was,  more  or  less  in  secret,  the  preoccupation 
of  my  youth — "school"  with  some  such  variation  from 
traditional  classic  lines  as  would  create  or  stimulate  the 
indigenous.  I  had  not  yet  learned  what  New  York  was 
to  teach  me  later — that  necessity  was  the  mother  of  art, 
and  that  pure  new  styles  were  formed  not  by  any  one's 
ingenuity  or  by  the  caprice  of  changing  taste,  but  because 
human  needs  demanded  them.  Rejecting  the  art  nou- 
veau,  which  later  made  its  permanent  home  in  Germany, 
I  combined  all  the  lines  in  which  great  buildings  had  ever 
been  designed,  from  the  Doric  to  the  Georgian,  in  the 
hope  of  evolving  a  type  which  the  world  would  recognize 
as  distinctively  Canadian,  and  to  which  I  should  give 
my  name.  In  imagination  I  built  castles,  cathedrals 
and  theaters,  homes,  hotels  and  offices.  They  were 
in  the  style  to  be  known  as  Melburyesque,  and  would 
draw  students  from  all  parts  of  the  architectural  earth 
to  Montreal. 

It  was  not  an  unworthy  dream,  and  even  if  I  could 
never  have  worked  it  out  1  might  have  made  of  it  some- 
thing of  which  not  wholly  to  be  ashamed.    But  as  early 
4* 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

at  before  I  went  to  the  Beaux  Arts  the  curse  of  Canada — 
the  curse,  more  or  less,  of  all  northern  peoples— began 
to  be  laid  upon  me.  In  Paris  I  had  some  respite  from  it, 
but  almost  as  soon  as  I  had  hung  out  my  shingle  at  home 
I  was  suffering  again  from  its  cravings.  I  will  not  say 
that  I  put  up  no  fight,  but  I  put  up  no  fight  commensu- 
rate with  the  evil  I  had  to  face.  The  result  was  what 
I  have  told  you,  and  for  which  I  now  had  to  suffer  in  my 
soul  the  most  scorching  form  of  recompense. 

The  point  I  found  it  difficult  to  decide  was  as  to  whether 
or  not  I  ever  wanted  to  see  Regina  Barry  again— or 
y\*ether  I  had  it  in  me  to  go  back  and  show  myself  to  her 
in  the  state  from  which  I  had  fallen  more  than  three  years 
before.  In  the  end  it  was  that  possibility  alone  which 
enabled  me  to  endure  the  real  coming  of  the  dawn. 

For  it  came— this  new  day  which  out  of  darkness  might 
be  bringing  me  a  new  life. 

As  I  lay  with  my  face  turned  toward  the  west  I  got 
none  of  its  first  glories.  Even  on  a  cloudy  morning,  with 
a  spattering  of  rain,  I  knew  there  must  be  splendors  in 
the  east,  if  no  more  than  gray  and  lusterless  splendors. 
Light  to  a  gray  worid  is  as  magical  as  hope  to  a  gray 
heart;  and  as  I  watched  the  lamps  on  the  New  Jersey 
heights  grow  wan,  while  the  river  unbared  its  bosom  to 
the  day,  that  thing  came  to  me  which  makes  disgrace 
and  shame  and  humiliadon  and  every  other  ingredient 
of  remorse  a  remedy  rather  than  a  poison. 

I  myself  was  hardly  aware  of  the  fact  till  Lovey  and  I 
had  crept  out  of  our  cubby-hole,  because  all  round  us  men 
were  going  to  work.  Sleepers  in  the  open  generally  rise 
with  daylight,  but  we  had  kept  longer  than  usual  to  our 
refuge  because  we  didn't  want  to  fare  forth  into  the  rain. 
As  sooner  or  later  it  would  come  to  a  choice  between 
43 


THE  CITY   OF   COMRADES 

going  out  and  being  kicked  out,  we  decided  to  move  of 
our  own  accord. 

I  must  leave  to  your  imagination  the  curious  sensation 
of  the  down  and  out  in  having  nothing  to  do  but  to  get 
up,  shake  themselves,  and  walk  away.  On  waking  after 
each  of  these  homeless  nights  it  had  seemed  to  me  that 
the  necessity  for  undressing  to  go  to  bed  and  dressing 
when  one  got  up  in  the  morning  was  the  primary  distinc- 
tion between  being  a  man  and  being  a  mere  animal. 
Not  to  have  to  undress  just  to  dress  again  reduced  one 
to  the  level  of  the  horse.  Stray  dogs  got  up  and  went 
off  to  their  vague  leisure  just  as  Lovey  and  I  were  doing. 
Not  to  wash,  not  to  go  to  breakfast,  not  to  have  a  duty 
when  washing  and  breakfasting  were  done— knocked  out 
from  under  one  all  the  props  that  civilization  had  built 
up  and  deprived  one  of  the  right  to  call  oneself  a  man. 

I  think  it  was  this  last  consideration  that  had  most 
weight  with  me  as  Lovey  and  I  stood  gazing  at  the  multi- 
farious activities  of  the  scene.  There  were  men  in  sight, 
busy  with  all  kinds  of  occupations.  They  were  like  ants; 
they  were  like  bees.  They  came  and  went  and  pulled 
and  hauled  and  hammered  and  climbed  and  dug,  and 
every  man's  eyes  seemed  bent  on  his  task  as  if  it  were 
the  only  one  in  the  world. 

"It  means  two  or  three  dollars  a  day  to  'em  if  they 
ain't,"  Lovey  grunted,  when  I  had  pointed  this  fact  out 
to  him.  "Don't  suppose  they'd  work  if  they  didn't 
'ave  to,  do  ye?" 

"I  dare  say  they  wouldn't.  But  my  point  is  that  they 
do  work.  It's  Emerson  who  says  that  every  man  is  at 
lazy  as  he  dares  to  be,  isn't  it?" 

"Oh,  anybody  could  say  that." 

"And  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  they'd  rather  be  lazy, 
44 


THE   CITY  OF  COMRADES 

they're  all  doing  something.  Look  at  them.  Look  at 
them  in  every  direction  to  which  your  eyet  can  turn — 
droves  of  them,  swarms  of  them,  armies  of  them— every 
one  bent  on  something  into  which  he  is  putting  a  piece 
of  himself!" 

"Well,  they've  got  'omes  or  boardin'-'ouses.  It's  easy 
enough  to  git  a  job  when  ye  can  give  an  address.  But 
when  ye  carn't— " 

We  were  to  test  that  within  a  minute  or  two.  Fifteen 
or  twenty  brownies  were  digging  in  a  ditch.  Of  all  the 
forms  of  work  in  sight  it  seemed  that  which  demanded  the 
least  in  the  r  »y  of  special  training. 

Approaching  a  fiercely  mustachioed  man  of  clearly  d»- 
fined  nationality,  I  said,  "Say,  boss,  could  you  give  my 
buddy  and  me  a  job?" 

Rolling  toward  me  a  pair  of  eyes  that  would  have  done 
credit  to  a  bandit  in  an  opera,  he  emitted  sounds  which 
I  can  best  transcribe  as,  "Where  d'livef" 

"That's  the  trouble,"  I  answered,  truthfully.  "We 
don't  live  anywhere  and  we  should  like  to." 

He  looked  us  over.  "Beat  it,"  he  commanded,  nod- 
ding toward  the  central  quarters  of  the  city. 

"But,  boss,"  I  pleaded,  "my  buddy  and  I  haven't  got 
a  quarter  between  us." 

He  pointed  with  his  thumb  over  his  left  shoulder. 
"Getta  out." 

"We  haven't  got  a  nickel,"  I  insisted;  "we  haven't  apt 
a  cent."  * 

"Cristoforo,  ca'  da  cop." 

As  Cristoforo  sprang  from  the  ditch  to  look  for  a  police* 
man,  Lovey  and  I  shuffled  off  again  into  the  rain. 

We  stood  for  a  minute  at  the  edge  of  one  of  the  long, 
■ordid  avenues  where  a  sordid  life  was  surging  up  and 
4S 


t 


THE  CITY  OF   COMRADES 

down.  Men,  women,  and  children  of  all  races  and  nearly 
all  ranks  were  hurrjring  to  and  fio,  each  bent  on  an  errand. 
It  was  the  fact  that  life  provided  an  errand  for  each  of 
them  that  suddenly  struck  me  as  the  most  wonderful 
thing  in  creation.  There  was  no  one  so  young  or  so  old, 
no  one  so  ignorant  or  so  alien,  that  he  was  not  going  from 
point  to  point  with  a  special  purpose  in  view.  Among  the 
thousands  and  the  tens  of  thousands  who  would  in  the 
course  of  the  morning  pass  the  spot  on  which  we  stood, 
there  would  p.obably  not  be  one  who  hadn't  dressed, 
washed,  and  breakfasted  as  a  return  for  his  daily  rontri- 
bution  to  the  common  good.  Never  before  and  hardly 
ever  since  did  I  have  such  a  sense  of  life's  infinite  and 
useful  complexity.  There  was  no  height  to  which  it 
didn't  go  up;  there  was  no  depth  to  which  it  didn't  go 
down.  No  one  was  left  out  but  the  absolute  wastrel  like 
myself,  who  couldn't  be  taken  in. 

Though  it  was  not  a  cold  day,  the  steadiness  of  die 
drizzle  chilled  me.  The  dampness  of  the  pavements  got 
through  the  worn  soles  of  my  boots,  and  I  suppose  it  did 
the  same  with  Levey's.  The  lack  of  food  made  the  old 
man  white,  and  that  c '  drink  set  him  to  trembling.  The 
fact  that  he  hadn't  shiived  for  the  past  day  or  two  gave 
his  sodden  face  a  grisly  look  that  was  truly  appalling. 
Though  the  pale-blue  eyes  were  extinct,  as  if  the  spirit 
in  them  had  been  quenched,  they  were  turned  toward  me 
with  the  piteous  appeal  I  had  sometimes  seen  in  those  of 
a  blind  dog. 

It  was  for  me  to  take  the  lead,  and  yet  I  couldn't  wholly 
see  in  what  direction  to  take  it-  While  I  was  pondering, 
Lovey  made  a  variety  of  suggestions. 

"There  doesn't  seem  to  be  nothink  for  it,  sonny,  but 
to  go  and  repent  for  a  day  or  two.    I  'ate  to  do  it;  kind 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

«/  deceivin'  like,  it  ia;  but  thc/ll  let  ut  dry  ouneivet  and 
give  us  a  feed  if  we  'are  a  lenie  of  sin." 

I  wondered  if  he  had  in  mind  anything  better  than 
what  I  had  myself. 

"Where.*" 

He  took  the  negative  side  first. 

"We  couldn't  go  to  the  Saviour,  because  I've  put  it 
over  on  'em  twice  this  year  already.  And  the  'Omeless 
Men  won't  do  nothink  for  ye  onless  you  make  it  up  in 
menial  work." 

"I  won't  try  either  of  them,"  I  said,  briefly. 

"Don't  blame  jrou,  sonny,  not  a  bit.  Kind  o'  makes 
a  hypercrite  of  a  man,  it  does.  I  'ate  to  be  a  hypercrite, 
only  when  I  carn't  'elp  it." 

He  went  on  to  enumerate  other  agencies  for  the  raising 
of  the  fallen,  of  most  of  which  he  had  tested  the  hos- 
pitality during  the  past  few  years.  I  rejected  them  as 
he  named  them,  one  by  one.  To  this  rejection  Lovey 
subscribed  with  the  unreasoning  dislike  all  outcast  men 
feel  for  the  hand  stretched  down  to  them  from  higher  up. 
Nothing  buf  starvation  would  have  forced  him  to  any  of 
these  thresholds;  and  for  me  even  starvation  would  not 
work  the  miracle. 

"What's  the  matter  with  the  Down  and  Out?"  I  sprang 
on  him,  suddenly. 

He  groaned.  "(Mi,  sonnyl  It's  just— just  what  I  was 
afeared  of." 

I  turned  and  looked  down  into  his  poor,  bleared,  suf" 
fering  old  face. 

"Why?" 

"Because— because— oncet  ye  try  that  they'll— they'll 
never  let  ye  go." 

"But  suppose  you  don't  want  them  to  let  you  go?" 
47 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

He  backed  awajr  from  me.  If  the  dead  ejres  oouU 
waken  to  exprettion,  they  did  it  then. 

"Oh,  wnnyl"  He  shook  at  if  palsied.  "Ye  don't 
know  'em,  my  boy.  I've  summered  and  wintered  'em — 
by  lookin'  on.    I've  had  pals  of  my  own — " 

"And  what  are  they  doing  now,  those  pals  of  your 
own?" 

"God  knows;  I  don't.  Yes,  I  do;  some  of 'em.  I  set 
'em  round,  goin'  to  work  as  reg'lar  as  reg'Iar,  and  no 
more  spunk  in  'em  than  in  a  goldfish  when  ye  shakes  yer 
finger  at  their  bowl." 

Afraid  of  exciting  suspicion  by  standing  still,  we  began 
drifting  with  the  crowd. 

"Is  there  much  that  you  can  call  spunk  in  you  and  me?" 

Again  he  lifted  those  piteous,  drunken  eyes.  "We're 
fellas  together,  ain't  we?  We're  buddies.  I  'ear  ye  say 
to  yerself  when  you  was  speakin'  -co  that  Eyetalian." 

I  have  to  confess  that  with  his  inflection  something 
warm  crept  into  my  cold  heart.  You  have  to  be  as  I 
was  to  know  what  the  merest  crumbs  of  trust  and  affec- 
tion mean.  A  dog  as  stray  and  homeless  as  myself  might 
have  been  more  to  me;  but  since  I  had  no  dog  .  .  . 

"Yes,  Lovey,"  I  answered,  "we're  buddies,  all  right. 
But  for  that  very  reason  don't  you  think  we  ought  to  try 
to  help  each  other  up?" 

He  stopped,  to  turn  to  me  with  hands  crossed  on  hit 
breast  in  a  spirit  of  petition. 

"But,  sonny,  you  don't  mean — you  cam't  mean — on — 
on  the  wagon  i" 

"I  mean  on  anything  that  '11  get  us  out  of  this  hell  of 
a  hole." 

"Oh,  well,  if  it's  only  that,  I've— I've  been  in  tighter 
places  than  this  before — and — and  look   at  me  now. 


THE   CITY  OF  COMRADES 

There's  wayi.  Ye  don't  haye  to  jump  at  nothink  on- 
nat'rel.  If  ye'd  only  'ave  listened  to  me  yetterday — but 
it  ain't  too  late  even  now.  What  about  to-night?  Jutt 
two  old  ladies — no  violence — nothink  that  'd  let  you  in 
for  nothink  dishonorable." 

"No,  Lovey." 

We  drifted  on  again.  He  spoke  in  a  tone  of  bitur 
reproach. 

"Ye'd  rather  go  to  the  Down  and  Out!  It  '11  be  the 
down,  all  right,  sonny;  but  there'll  be  no  out  to  it.  Ye'U 
be  a  prisoner.  They'll  keep  at  ye  and  at  ye  till  yer  soul 
won't  be  yer  own.  Now  all  these  other  places  ye  can  put 
it  over  on  'em.  Thejr're  mostly  ladies  and  parsons  and 
greenhorns  that  never  'ad  no  experience.  A  little  re- 
pentance and  they'll  fall  for  it  every  time.  Besides" — he 
turned  to  me  with  another  form  of  appeal — "ye're  a 
Christian,  ain't  ye?  A  little  repentance  now  and  then  'U 
do  ye  good.  It's  like  something  laid  by  for  a  rainy  day. 
I've  tried  it,  so  I  know.  Ye're  young,  sonny.  Ye  don't 
understand.  And  when  it  '11  tide  ye  over  a  time  like 
this — they'll  git  ye  a  job,  very  likely — and  ye  can  back- 
slide by  and  by  when  it's  safe.  Why,  it's  all  as  easy  as 
easy." 

"It  isn't  as  easy  as  easy,  Lovey,  because  you  say  you 
don't  like  it  yourself." 

"I  like  it  better  than  the  Down  and  Out,  where  they 
won't  let  ye  backslide  no  more.  Why,  I  was  in  at  Stin- 
son's  one  day  and  there  was  a  chap  there — PoUins  was  his 
name,  a  plumber— just  enj'yin'  of  himself  like — ^nothink 
wrong — and  come  to  find  out  he'd  been  one  of  their  men. 
Well,  what  do  ye  think,  sonny  ?  A  fellow  named  Pyncheon 
blew  in — awfiil  'ard  drinker  for  a  young  'and,  he  used  t» 
be — and  he  sat  down  beside  Rollins  and  pled  with  'im 
49 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

«nd  plod  with  'im,  and-^well,  ye  don't  lee  RoUini  round 
Stmton'i  no  more.  I  tell  ye,  tonny,  ye  carn't  put  notl>- 
ing  over  on  'em.  They  knows  all  the  tricki  and  all  the 
trade.  Give  me  kind-'earted  ladies;  give  me  ministers 
of  the  gospel;  give  me  the  stool  o'  repenunce  two  or  three 
tomes  a  month;  but  don't  give  me  fellas  that  because 
they've  knocked  off  the  booze  theirselves  wants  every  one 
else  to  knock  it  off,  too,  and  don't  let  it  be  a  free  country." 
We  came  to  the  comer  to  which  I  had  been  directing 
our  seemingly  aimless  steps.  It  was  a  comer  where  the 
big  red  and  green  jars  that  had  once  been  the  symbols 
for  medicmes  within  now  stood  as  a  sign  for  soda-water 
and  ice-cream. 
"Let's  go  in  here." 

Lovey  hung  back.    "What's  the  use  of  that?    That 
am't  no  saloon." 
"G)me  on  and  let  us  try." 

Pushing  open  the  screen  door,  I  made  him  pass  in  be- 
fore me.  We  found  ourselves  in  front  of  a  white  counter 
fitted  up  like  a  kind  of  bar.  As  a  bar  of  any  sort  was 
better  than  none,  Love/s  face  took  on  a  leaden  shade 
of  bnghmess. 

In  the  way  of  a  guardian  all  we  could  see  at  first  was 
a  T^ite-coated  back  bent  behind  the  counter.  When  it 
straightened  up  it  was  topped  by  a  friendly,  boyish  face. 
Lovey  leaped  back,  pulling  me  by  the  arm. 
''TTiat's  that  very  young  Pyncheon  I  was  a-tellin'  you 
of,  he  whispered,  tragically;  "him  what  got  Rollins,  the 
plumber,  out  of  Stinson's.  Let's  'ook  it,  sonnyl  He 
won't  do  u?  no  good." 

But  the  boyish  face  had  already  begun  to  beam. 
"Hel-lo,  old  sportl    Haven't  seen  you  in  a  pair  of  blue 
moons.    Put  it  therel" 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

The  welcome  wat  the  mote  ditconcerting  because  in  the 
mirror  behind  Pyncheon  I  could  lee  mytelf  in  contrast  to 
hit  clean,  young,  manly  figure.  I  have  said  I  was  shabby 
without  being  hideously  so,  but  that  was  before  I  had 
slept  a  fourth  night  on  the  bare  boards  of  a  lumber-yard, 
to  be  drenched  with  rain  in  the  morning.  It  was  also 
before  I  had  gone  a  fourth  morning  without  shaving,  and 
with  nothing  more  thorough  in  the  way  of  a  wash  than 
I  could  steal  in  a  station  lavatory.  The  want  of  food, 
the  want  of  drink,  to  say  nothing  of  the  unspeakable  an- 
guish within,  had  stamped  me,  moreover,  with  something 
woebegone  and  spectral  which,  now  that  I  saw  it  reflected 
in  the  daylight,  shook  me  to  the  soul. 

I  never  was  so  timid,  apologetic,  or  shamefaced  in  my 
bfe  as  when  I  grasped  the  friendly  hand  stretched  out  to 
me  across  the  counter.  I  had  no  smile  to  return  to  Pyn- 
cheon's.  I  had  no  courtesies  to  exchange.  Not  till  that 
minute  had  I  realized  that  I  was  outside  the  system  of 
fellowship  and  manhood,  and  that  even  a  handshake  was 
a  condescension. 

"Pyn,"  I  faltered,  hoarsely,  "I  want  you  to  take  me  to 
the  Down  and  Out.    Will  you  f" 

"Sure  I  will!"  He  glanced  at  Lovey.  "And  I'll  take 
old  Lovikins,  too." 

"Don't  you  be  so  fresh  with  your  names,  young  man  I" 
Lovey  spoke  up,  tartly.  "Tain't  the  first  time  I've  seen 
you — " 

"And  I  hope  it  won't  be  the  last,"  Pyn  laughed. 
"That  '11  depend  on  how  polite  ye're  able  to  make  yer- 
self." 

"Oh,  you  can  count  me  in  on  politeness,  old  sport,  so 
long  as  you  come  to  the  Down  and  Out." 
"I'll  go  to  the  Down  and  Out  when  I  see  fit.    I  ain't 
SI 


I 


THE   CITY  OF  COMRADES 

goin'  to  be  dragged  there  by  the  'air  of  the  'ead.  a«  I  ie« 
you  drag  poor  Rolliiu,  the  plumber,  a  month  or  two 
ago." 

"Quit  your  kiddin',  Lorey.  How  am  I  going  to  drag 
you  by  the  'air  of  the  'ead  when  you're  ai  bald  as  a  door- 
knob I  Say,  you  fellows,"  he  went  on,  pulling  one  of  the 
levers  before  him,  "I'm  going  to  start  you  off  right  now 
with  a  glass  of  this  hot  chocolate.  The  treat's  on  me. 
By  the  time  you've  swallowed  it  Milligan  will  be  here, 
and  I  can  get  off  long  enough  to  take  you  over  to  Vandiver 
Street."  Bedashed  in  a  blob  of  whipped  cream.  "Here, 
old  son,  this  is  for  you;  and  there's  more  where  it  came 
from." 

"I  didn't  come  in  'ere  for  nothink  of  the  kind,"  Lovey 
protested.  "I  didn't  know  we  was  comin'  in  'ere  at  all. 
You  take  it,  sonny." 

"Go  ahead,  Lovikins,"  Mr.  Pyncheon  insisted.  "'£'• 
to  'ave  a  bigger  one,"  he  mimicked.  "Awful  good  for 
the  'air  of  the  'ead.  'LI  make  it  sprout  like  an  apple- 
tree — I  beg  your  pardon,  happle-tree— in  May." 

Before  Pjmcheon  had  finished,  the  primitive  in  poor 
Lovey  had  overcome  both  pride  and  reluctance,  and  the 
glass  of  chocolate  was  pretty  well  drained.  The  sight  of 
his  sheer  animal  avidity  warned  me  not  to  betray  myself. 
While  Pyncheon  explained  to  Milligan  and  made  his  prep- 
arations for  conducting  us,  I  carried  my  chocolate  to  the 
less  important  part  of  the  shop,  given  up  to  the  sale  of 
tooth-brushes  and  patent  medicines,  to  consume  it  at  ease 
and  with  dignity. 

Pyncheon  having  changed  to  a  coat,  in  the  buttonhole 
of  which  I  noticed  a  little  silver  star,  and  a  straw  hat 
with  a  faint  silver  line  in  the  hatband,  we  were  ready  to 
d^art. 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

"m  go  with  ye.  loiinjr,''  IxKny  explained;   "but  I 
am  t  •foin'  to  tuy.    No  Down  and  Out  for  mine." 

You  wouldn't  leaye  me,  Loyeyr  I  begged,  a*  I  re- 
pUced  the  empty  glatt  on  the  counter.  "I'm  looking  to 
you  to  help  me  to  keep  ftraight." 

J?^.*^'?''  "P  "  "**•  '"^«  »  ihaking  hand  on  my  aim. 
«       j'  '.'  't*  ***~    ^"*'"  •"  »'*'•«•  "»«  cheerfully, 

we  don  t  have  to  itay  no  longer  than  we  don't  want 
to.  There't  no  law  by  which  they  can  keep  ut  ag'in* 
our  will,  there  ain't." 

"No,  Lovey.  If  we  want  to  go  we'll  go— but  we're 
buddiei,  aren't  we?    And  we'll  itick  by  each  other." 

"Say,  you  fellowil  Quick  march  I  I've  only  got  half 
an  hour  to  get  there  and  back." 

Out  in  the  street,  Lovey  and  I  hung  behind  our  guide. 
He  wat  too  briik  and  tmart  and  clean  for  ui  to  keep  ttep 
with.  Alone  we  could,  at  we  phrased  it,  get  by.  With 
him  the  contrast  called  attention  to  the  fact  that  we 
were  broken  and  homeless  men. 

j|You  go  ahead,  Pyn— "  I  began. 

"Aw,  cut  that  outr  he  returned,  scornfully.  "Wasn't 
la  worse  looker  than  you,  two  and  a  half  years  ago? 
Old  Colonel  Straight  picked  me  up  from  a  bench  in  Madi- 
•on  Square— the  very  bench  from  which  he'd  been  picked 
up  himself— and  dragged  me  down  to  Vandiver  Street 
like  a  nurse  '11  drag  a  boy  that  kicks  like  blazes  every 
step  of  the  way." 

As  we  were  now  walking  three  abreast,  with  Pyn  in  the 
middle,  I  asked  the  question  that  was  most  on  my  mind: 

I  Was  it  hard,  Pyn— cutting  the  booze  out?" 

"Sure  it  was  hard!    What  do  you  think?    You're  not 
on  the  way  to  a  picnic    For  the  first  two  weeks  I  fought 
like  hell.    If  the  other  guys  hadn't  sat  on  my  head— wel^ 
53 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

jpou  uid  old  Lovcjr  WDuldn't  have  had  no  gbw  of  hot 
diocobte  thit  morning." 

"I  tuppote  the  first  two  weeki  are  the  worn." 

"And  the  beet.  If  you're  really  out  to  put  the  job 
through  you  find  younelf  toughening  to  it  every  day." 

"And  you  mean  by  being  out  to  put  the  job  through?" 

"Wanting  to  get  the  dumed  thing  under  you  lo  as  you 
can  stand  on  it  and  stamp  it  down.  Boose  Ml  make  two 
kinds  of  repenters,  and  I  guess  you  guys  stand  for  both. 
Old  Levey  here" — he  pinched  my  companion's  arm — 
"he'll  forsake  his  bad  habits  just  long  enough  to  get  well 
fed  up,  a  clean  shirt  on  his  back,  and  his  nerves  a  bit 
quieted  down.  But  he'll  always  be  looking  forward  to  the 
day  when  he'll  be  tempted  again,  and  thinking  of  the  good 
time  he'll  have  when  he  falls." 

"If  you'll  mind  yer  own  business,  young  Pyn— " 
Lovey  began,  irritably. 

"Then  there's  another  kind,"  this  experienced  reformet 
went  on,  imperturbably,  "what  '11  have  a  reason  for  cut- 
ting the  blasted  thing  out,  like  he'd  cut  out  a  cancer  or 
anything  else  that  'II  kill  him.  I've  always  known  you 
was  that  kind.  Slim,  and  I  told  you  so  nearly  a  yeat 
ago. 

"I  seen  ye,"  Lovey  put  in.    "Was  speakin'  about  it 
*  only  yesterday.     Knew  you  was  after  no  good.    I  warned 
ye,  didn't  I,  Slim?" 

Curiosity  prompted  me  to  say,  "What  made  you  think 
I  had  a  morive  for  getting  over  it?" 

"Looks.  You  can  always  tell  what  a  man's  made  for 
by  the  kind  of  looker  he  is.  As  a  looker  you're  some 
sweU.    Lovikins  here,  now — " 

"If  I  can't  do  as  well  as  the  likes  o'  you,  ye  poor  little 
•nipe  of  a  bartender  for  babies — " 
54 


^  i 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 


you  bet  you  can'tr  Pyn  aakcd,  tDod- 


"Wh«  'U 

naturedly. 

"I  ain't  »  bettin'  man,  but  I  can  showr' 
"Well,  you  show,  and  I'll  lay  fifty  centi  againit  you. 

You'll  be  umpire,  Slim,  and  hold  the  Kakc*.    It  that  a 

tor 

"I  don't  'ave  no  truck  o*  that  kind,"  Lovey  declared, 
loftily.  "I'madoer,  lam-^henlgeta-goin*.  I  don't 
brag  beforehand — not  like  lome." 

I  wai  ttill  curious,  however,  about  myielf. 

"And  what  did  you  make  out  of  my  look*,  I^?" 

He  stopped,  stood  off,  and  eyed  me. 

"  Do  you  know  what  you're  like  now?" 

"I  know  I'm  not  like  anjrthing  human." 

"You're  like  a  twenty-dollar  bill  that's  been  in  every 
pawnshop,  and  every  bar,  and  tvery  old  woman's  stocking, 
and  every  old  bum's  pocket,  and  is  covered  with  dirt  and 
grease  and  microbes  till  you  wouldn't  hardly  hold  it  in 
your  hand;  but  it's  still  a  twenty-dollar  bill— that  'II  buy 
twenty  dollars'  worth  every  time— and  whenever  you  like 
you  can  get  gold  for  it." 

"Thank  you,  Pyn,"  I  returned,  humbly,  as  we  went  on 
our  way  again.  "That's  the  whitest  thing  that  has  ever 
been  said  to  me." 

Before  we  reached  Vandiver  Street,  Pyn  had  given  u« 
two  bin  of  information,  both  of  which  I  waj,  glad  to 
receive. 

One  was  eqdrely  personal,  being  a  brief  survey  of  hi* 
fall  and  rise.  The  son  of  a  barber  in  one  of  the  small 
towns  near  New  York,  he  had  gone  to  work  with  a  drug- 
gist on  leaving  the  high  school.  His  type,  as  he  described 
It,  had  been  from  the  beginning  that  of  the  cheap  sport. 
Cheap  sports  had  been  his  companions,  and  before  he 

is 


ITHE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 


I 


wat  twenty-one  he  had  married  a  pretty  manicure  giri 
from  his  father*!  establishment.  He  had  married  her 
while  on  a  spree,  and  after  the  spree  had  repented.  Re- 
penting chiefly  because  he  wasn't  earning  enough  to  keep 
a  wife,  he  threw  the  blame  for  his  mistake  on  her.  When 
a  baby  came  he  was  annoyed;  when  a  second  baby  came 
he  was  desperate;  when  a  third  baby  promised  to  appear 
he  was  overwhelmed.  Since  the  expenses  of  being  a  cheap 
sport  couldn't  be  reduced,  he  saw  no  resource  but  flight 
to  New  York,  leaving  his  wife  to  fend  for  herself  and  her 
children. 

Folly  having  made  of  him  a  hard  drinker,  remorse  made 
of  him  a  harder  one.  And  since  no  young  fellow  of  twenty- 
four  is  callous  enough  to  take  wife-desertion  with  an  easy 
conscience,  my  own  first  talks  with  him  had  been  filled 
with  maudlin  references  to  a  kind  of  guilt  I  hadn't  at  the 
time  understood.  All  I  knew  was  that  from  bad  he  had 
gone  to  worse,  and  from  worse  he  was  on  the  way  to  the 
worst  of  all,  when  old  Colonel  Straight  rescued  him. 

The  tale  of  that  rescue  unfolded  some  of  the  history  of 
the  Down  and  Out.  As  to  that,  Pyn  laid  the  emphasis 
on  the  fact  that  the  club  was  not  a  mission — that  is,  it 
was  not  the  effort  of  the  safe  to  help  those  who  are  in 
danger;  it  was  the  eflFort  of  those  who  are  in  danger  to 
help  themselves.  Built  up  on  unassisted  effort,  it  was  self- 
respecting.  No  bribes  had  ever  been  o£Fered  it,  and  no 
persuasions  but  such  as  a  man  who  has  got  out  of  hell 
can  bring  to  bear  on  another  who  is  still  frying  in  the  fire. 
Its  action  being  not  from  the  top  downward,  but  from  the 
bottom  upward,  it  had  a  native  impulse  to  expansion. 

Its  inception  had  been  an  accident.  Two  men  who 
had  first  met  as  Pyncheon  and  I  had  first  met  had  lost 
tight  of  each  other  for  several  years.  At  a  time  when  each 
S6 


THE   CITY  OF  COMRADES 

had  worked  hi.  wlvation  out  they  had  come  together  br 
acodent  on  Broadway,  and  later  had  by  another  accident 
become  responsible  for  a  third.  Finding  him  one  night 
lying  on  the  pavement  of  a  lonely  street,  they  had  seem, 
mgly  had  no  choice  but  to  pick  him  up  and  cany  him  to 
a  cheap  but  friendly  hostelry  which  they  knew  would  not 
refuse  him.  Here  they  had  kept  him  till  he  had  sobered 
up  and  taken  the  job  they  found  for  him.  Watching  over 
him  for  months,  they  finally  had  the  pleasure  of  restoring 
hmi  to  hif  wife  and  wseing  a  broken  home  put  on  its  feet 
again.  Ihis  third  man,  in  gratitude  for  what  had  been 
done  for  him,  went  after  a  fourth,  and  the  fourth  after  a 
tfth  and  so  the  chain  was  flung  out.  By  the  time  their 
number  had  mcreased  to  some  twenty-five  or  thirty 
Providence  offered  them  a  dwelling-place. 

The  dweUing-place,  with  the  few  apparently  worthless 
articles  It  contamed,  was  all  the  club  had  ever  accepted 
a«  a  gift  Even  that  might  have  been  declined  had  it 
not  been  for  the  fact  that  it  was  going  begging.  When  old 
Miss  Smedley  died  it  was  found  that  she  had  left  her 
residence  m  Vandiver  Place  as  a  legacy  to  St.  David's 
Church,  across  the  way.  She  had  left  it,  however,  as  an 
empty  residence.  As  an  empty  residence  it  was  in  a  meas- 
ure a  white  elephant  on  the  hands  of  a  legatee  that  had 
no  immediate  use  for  it. 

St  David's  Oiurch,  you  wiU  remember,  was  not  now 
the  fashionable  house  of  prayer  it  had  been  in  its  early 
days.  Time  was  when  Vandiver  Place  was  the  heart  of 
exclusive  New  York.  In  the  'forties  and  'fifties  no  sec- 
tion of  the  aty  had  been  more  select.  In  the  'sixties  and 
seventies,  when  Doctor  Grace  was  rector  of  St.  David's 
It  had  become  time-honoied.  In  the  'eighties  and  'nineties 
the  old  &umhes  bc^an  to  move  up-town  and  the  boarding- 
•  57 


, 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

houses  to  creep  in;  and  in  the  early  years  of  the  twentieth 
century  the  residents  ceded  the  ground  entirely  to  the 
manufacturer  of  artificial  flowers  and  the  tailor  of  the 
ready-to-wear.  In  191 1  the  line  of  houses  that  made  it 
a  cul-de-sac  was  torn  down  and  a  broad  thoroughfare  cut 
through  a  congeries  of  slums,  the  whole  being  named 
Vandiver  Street.  Vandiver  Place  was  gone;  and  with  it 
went  Miss  Smedley. 

Rufus  Legrand,  who  succeeded  Doctor  Grace  as  rector 
of  St.  David's,  offered  Miss  Smedley's  house  as  a  home 
for  the  Down  and  Out;  but  it  was  Beady  Lamont,  a 
husky  furniture-mover  and  ardent  member  of  the  club, 
who  suggested  this  philanthropic  opportunity  to  Rufus 
Legrand. 

"Say,  reverent,  my  buddy's  give  in  at  last,  on'y  I 
haven't  got  no  place  to  put  him.  But,  say,  reverent, 
there's  that  old  house  I  helped  to  move  the  sticks  out  of 
two  or  three  months  ago.  There's  three  beds  left  in  it, 
and  a  couple  of  chairs.  Me  and  him  could  bunk  there  for 
a  few  nights,  while  he  got  straightened  out,  and — " 

"But  you'd  have  no  bedclothes." 

"Say,  reverent,  we  don't  want  no  bedclothes.  Sleepin' 
in  the  Park  '11  learn  you  how  to  do  without  sheets." 

"My  daughter,  Mrs.  Ralph  Coningsby,  could  undoubt- 
edly supply  you  with  some." 

"Say,  reverent,  that  ain't  our  way.  We  don't  pass  the 
buck  on  no  one.  What  we  haven't  £,-ot  we  do  without 
till  we  can  pay  for  it  ourselves.  But  that  old  house  ain't 
doin'  nothing  but  sit  on  its  haunches;  and  if  I  could  just 
get  Tiger  into  the  next  bed  to  mine  at  night — we  don't 
want  no  bedclothes  nor  nothing  but  what  we  lay  down 
in — and  take  him  along  with  me  when  I  go  to  work  by 
day,  so  as  to  keep  my  search-lights  on  him,  like — " 
58 


THE   CITY  OF  COMRADES 

Rufus  Legrand  had  already  sufficiently  weighed  the 
proposal. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  see  why  you  shouldn't  sleep  in  the 
old  place  as  long  as  you  like,  Beady,  if  you  can  only 
make  yourselves  comfortable." 

"Say,  reverent,  now  you're  shouting." 

So  another  accident  settled  the  fate  of  Miss  Smedley's 
lifelong  home;  and  before  many  weeks  the  Down  and 
Out  was  in  full  possession. 

It  was  in  full  possession  of  the  house  with  the  refuse 
the  heirs  had  not  considered  good  enough  to  take  away — 
three  iron  bedsteads  that  the  servants  had  used;  an  equal 
number  of  humble  worn-out  mattresses;  two  tolerably 
solid  wooden  chairs,  three  that  needed  repairs,  which 
were  speedily  given  them;  some  crockery  mote  or  less 
chipped  and  cracked;  and  a  stained  steel-engraving  of 
Franklin  in  the  salon  of  Marie  Antoinette, 

True  to  its  principles,  the  club  accepted  neither  gifts 
of  money  nor  contributions  in  kind.  Its  members  were 
all  graduates  of  the  school  of  doing  without.  To  those  who 
came  there  a  roof  over  the  head  was  a  luxury,  while  to 
have  a  friend  to  stand  by  them  and  care  whether  they 
went  to  the  devil  or  not  was  little  short  of  a  miracle. 

But  by  the  time  Billy  Pyncheon  had  been  brought  in 
by  old  Colonel  Straight,  gratitude,  sacrifice,  and  enthusi- 
asm on  the  part  of  one  or  another  of  the  members  had 
adequately  fitted  up  this  house  to  which  Lovey  and  I 
were  on  the  way.  It  had  become,  too,  the  one  institution 
of  which  the  saloon-keepers  of  my  acquaintance  were 
afraid.  We  were  all  afraid  of  it.  It  had  worked  so  many 
wonders  among  our  pals  that  we  had  come  to  look  on  it 
as  a  home  of  the  necromantic.  Missions  of  any  kind  we 
knew  how  to  cope  with;  but  in  the  Down  and  Out  there 
S9 


THE   CITY   OF   COMRADES 

wu  a  aoit  of  wizardry  that  tamed  the  wilden  hearts 
among  us,  cast  out  devils,  and  raised  the  nearly  dead. 
I  myself  for  a  year  or  more— ever  since  I  had  seen  the 
tpell  it  had  wrought  on  Pyn,  for  whom  from  the  first 
I  had  felt  a  sympathy — had  been  haunted  by  the  dread 
of  it;  and  here  I  was  at  the  door. 

The  door  when  we  got  to  it  was  something  of  a  dis- 
appointment. It  was  at  the  head  of  a  flight  of  old-time 
biownstone  steps,  and  was  just  like  any  other  door. 
About  it  was  nothing  of  the  magical  or  cabalistic  Lovey 
and  I  had  been  half  expecting. 

More  impressive  was  the  neat  little  man  who  opened 
to  our  ting.  He  was  a  wan,  wistful,  smiling  little  figure 
of  sixty-odd,  on  whom  all  the  ends  of  the  world  seemed 
to  have  come.  He  was  like  a  man  who  has  been  dead 
and  buried  and  has  come  to  life  again — but  who  shows 
he  has  been  dead.    If  I  had  to  look  like  that  .  .  . 

But  I  took  comfort  in  the  thought  of  P)m.  Pyn  showed 
nothing.  He  was  like  one  of  the  three  holy  men  who 
went  through  Nebuchadnezzar's  furnace — ^the  smell  rf 
fire  had  not  passed  on  him.  A  heartier,  healthier,  merrier 
fellow  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  find. 

He  entered  now  with  the  air  of  authority  which  belongs 
to  the  member  of  a  club. 

"Fellows  had  their  breakfast,  Spenderf 

Spender  was  all  welcome,  of  the  wistful,  yearning  kind. 

"The  men  at  work  is  gone;  but  the  guys  under  restraint 
is  srill  at  table." 

"Mr.  Christian  not  here  yet?" 

"Never  gets  here  before  nine;  and  it's  not  half  past 
seven  yet." 

Pyn  turned  to  me.    "Say,  do  you  want  to  go  in  and 
feed,  or  will  you  wash  up  first,  or  go  to  bed,  or  what?" 
60 


THE   CITY  OF  COMRADES 
With  thit  larse  liberty  of  choice  I  uked  if  we  could  do 
„ir"^  '^  ^^^    ^*  ^"  Spender  who  explained. 
That  s  the  rule  for  new  arrivali,  unleu  they've  got 

to  be  put  under  restraint  at  once." 
"I  don't  want  to  be  put  under  no  lettraint,"  Lovey 

declared,  indignantly. 
"TTiat  'U  be  all  right,"  Spender  repUed,  kindly,  "ua- 

leM  there's  vermin—" 
Lovey  jumped. 

"See  here,  now!  Don't  you  begin  no  such  immodest 
talk  to  me." 

"There,  there.  Lovikins,"  Pyn  broke  in.  "Spender 
don  t  mean  no  harm.  All  sorts  have  to  come  to  a  place 
hke  this.  But  when  we  see  a  gentleman  we  treat  him  like 
a  gentleman.  All  Spender  wants  to  know  is  this,  Is  it 
eats  for  you  first,  or  a  bath?" 

".^^  ^.*'°!I'*  "'""*  "°  •'«'•'"  ^""y  declared,  proudly. 
Ihen  It  11  be  eats.    Quick  march  1    I've  got  to  beat 
It  back  to  my  job." 

Pyn's  introduction  of  us  to  those  already  in  the  dining- 
room  was  simple. 

"This  is  Lovey.  This  is  Slim.  You  guys  'U  make  'em 
feel  at  home." 

Making  us  feel  at  home  consisted  in  .  loving  along  the 
table  so  as  to  give  us  room.  In  words  there  was  no  re- 
sponse to  Pyn,  who  withdrew  at  once,  nor  was  there  more 
than  a  cursory  mspection  of  us  with  the  eyes.  Whatever 
was  kindly  was  in  the  atmosphere,  and  that  was  perceptible. 

As  we  sat  before  two  empty  places,  one  of  our  new 
companions  rose,  went  to  the  dresser  behind  us,  and 
brought  us  each  a  plate,  a  spoon,  a  knife,  and  a  cup  and 
•aucer.  A  big  man  went  to  the  kitchen  door  and  in  a 
voice  kke  thunder  called  out,  "Mousel" 
6i 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

By  the  time  he  had  returned  to  his  place  a  stumpy 
individual  with  a  big  red  mustache  and  a  limp  appeared 
on  the  threshold.  An  explanation  of  the  summons  was 
given  him  when  a  third  of  our  friends  pointed  at  us  with  a 
spoonful  of  oatmeal  porridge  before  he  put  it  in  his  mouth. 

Mouse  withdrew  into  the  kitchen,  coming  back  with 
two  basins  of  porridge,  which  he  placed,  steaming  hot, 
before  us.  Presently,  too,  he  filled  our  cups  with  coffee. 
Bread  and  butter,  sugar  and  milk,  were  all  on  the  table. 
The  meal  went  on  in  silence,  except  for  the  smacking  of 
lips  and  the  clinking  of  spoons  on  the  crockeryware. 

Of  our  fellow-guests  I  can  only  say  that  they  presented 
different  phases  of  the  forlorn.  The  man  next  to  me  was 
sallow,  hatchet-faced,  narrow-breasted,  weak  of  physique, 
and  looked  as  if  he  might  have  been  a  tailor.  His  hair 
was  a  shock  of  unkempt  black  curls,  and  his  dark  eyes 
the  largest  and  longest  and  most  luminous  I  ever  saw 
in  a  man.  In  their  nervous  glance  they  made  me  think 
of  a  horse's  eyes,  especially  when  he  rolled  them  toward 
me  timidly. 

Opposite  was  a  sandy,  freckled-face  type,  whom  I 
easily  diagnosed  as  a  Scotchman.  Light  hair,  light  eye- 
brows, and  a  heavy  reddish  mustache  set  off  a  face  scored 
with  a  few  deep  wrinkles,  and  savage  like  that  of  a  beast 
fretted  with  a  sense  of  helplessness.  The  shaking  hand 
that  passed  the  bread  to  me  was  muscular,  freckled,  and 
covered  with  coarse,  reddish  hairs.  I  put  him  down  as 
a  gardener. 

At  the  head  of  the  table  was  a  huge,  unwieldy  fellow 
who  looked  as  if  he  had  all  run  to  fat,  but  who,  as  I  after- 
ward learned,  was  a  mass  of  muscle  and  sinew,  like  a 
Japanese  wrestler.  He  had  bloated  cheeks  and  bloated 
hands,  and  a  voice  so  big  and  bass  that  when  he  spoke, 
62 


THE   CITY  OF  COMRADES 

ai  he  did  on  going  to  the  door  to  iiunmon  Mouse,  he  al- 
most shook  the  dishes  on  the  dresser.  He  proved  to  be, 
too,  a  pal  of  Beady  Lamont's,  and  as  a  piano-mover  by 
profession  he  frequented  Beady's  spheres. 

At  the  big  man's  right  was  a  poor  little  whippersnapper, 
not  more  than  five  foot  two,  who  looked  as  if  a  puff  would 
blow  him  away;  and  opposite  him  a  tall,  spare,  fine- 
looking  Irishman,  a  hospital  attendant,  whose  face  would 
have  been  full  of  humor  had  it  not  been  convulsed  for 
the  time  being  with  a  sense  of  mortal  anguish.  It  was 
he  who  had  brought  us  our  dishes  and  took  pains  to  see 
that  our  needs  were  supplied. 

No  more  than  any  of  the  others  were  we  eager  for  con- 
versation. The  fact  that  we  were  having  good  warm 
food  served  in  a  more  or  less  regular  way  was  enough 
to  occupy  all  that  was  uppermost  in  our  thoughts.  Poor 
Lovey  ate  as  he  had  drunk  the  chocolate  half  an  hour 
before,  with  a  greed  that  was  abnost  terrible.  Once 
more  I  might  have  done  the  same  had  I  not  taken  his 
example  as  a  warning.  Not  that  anything  I  did  would 
have  attracted  attention  in  that  particular  gathering. 
Each  man's  gaze  was  turned  inward.  His  soul's  tragedy 
absorbed  him  to  the  exclusion  of  everything  else.  Reac- 
tion from  the  stupor  of  excess  brought  nothing  but  a 
sense  of  woe.  There  was  woe  on  all  faces.  There  would 
have  been  woe  in  all  thoughts  if  conscious  thought  had 
not  been  outside  the  range  of  these  drugged  and  stultified 
faculnes. 

What  was  more  active  than  anything  else  was  a  blind 
fellow-feeling.  They  did  little  things  for  ene  another. 
They  did  little  watchful  things  for  Lovey  and  me.  They 
even  quarreled  over  their  kindnesses  like  children  eager 
to  make  themselves  usefuL 

63 


THE   CITY   OF   COMRADES 

"You'll  want  to  know  whew  the  barth-ioom  ie,"  th« 
timid  tailor  (aid  to  me  a*  we  rote  from  the  table.  "Ill 
«how  you." 

There  was  a  marl  from  the  whippeimapper  acioM  the 

way. 

"Aw,  put  your  lid  on,  Headlightt.  How  long  haye 
you  been  showin'  barth-rooms  in  this  here  shebang?" 
He  beckoned  to  me.    "You  come  along  o'  me.  Slim — " 

It  was  the  Irishman  who  intervened  to  keep  the  peace. 

"Listen  to  Daisy  now,  will  youf  He's  like  a  fox- 
terrier  that  owns  the  house  and  grounds  and  barks  at 
every  wan  who  goes  by. '  Look  now,  Daisy  I  You  take 
this  ould  gent  up  to  the  bath-room  on  the  top  floor;  and 
you,  Headlights,  show  Slim  to  the  one  on  the  second  floor, 
and  every  wan  o'  you  '11  have  a  bite  at  the  cake." 

With  this  peaceable  division  of  the  honors  we  started 
off. 

I  must  describe  the  club  as  very  humble.  The  rooms 
themselves,  as  was  natural  with  an  old  New  York  resi- 
dence, did  not  lack  dignity.  Though  too  narrow  for  their 
height,  they  had  admirable  cornices  and  some  exquisite 
ceiling  medallions.  It  is  probable,  too,  that  in  days  when 
there  were  no  skyscrapers  in  the  neighborfiood  the  house 
was  light  enough,  but  now  it  wore  a  general  air  of  dim- 
ness. The  furnishings  were  just  what  you  might  have 
expected  from  the  efforts  of  very  poor  men  in  giving  of 
their  small  superfluity.  There  were  plenty  of  plain 
wooden  chairs,  and  a  su£Bciency  of  tables  to  match  them. 
In  the  two  down-stairs  sitting-rooms,  which  must  once 
have  been  Miss  Smedle/s  front  and  back  drawing-rooms, 
there  were  benches  against  the  wall.  A  roll-top  desk, 
which  I  learned  was  the  official  seat  of  Mr.  Christian,  was 
.so  placed  as  to  catch  the  light  from  Vandiver  Stmt.  A 
64 


THE   CITY   OF   COMRADES 

plain,  black,  wooden  croM  between  the  two  front  win, 
dowi,  and  Franklin  in  the  salon  of  Marie  Antoinette  in 
the  place  of  honor  over  a  fine  old  white  marble  mantel- 
piece, completed  the  two  reception-rooms. 

The  floor  above  was  given  over  to  the  dormitoriea 
for  outsiders,  and  contained  little  more  than  beds.    They 
were  small  iron  beds,  made  up  without  counterpanes.    As 
every  man  made  his  own,  the  result  would  not  have 
passed  the  inspection  of  a  high-class  chambermaid,  but 
they  satisfied  those  who  lay  down  in  them.    Since  out- 
siders came  in,  like  Lovey  and  me,  with  little  or  nothing 
m  the  way  of  belongings,  it  was  unnecessary  to  make 
further  provision  for  their  wardrobes  than  could  be  found 
in  the  existing  closets  and  shelves.     In  the  front  bedroom, 
which  I  suppose  must  have  been  Miss  Smedley's,  there 
were  nine  small  beds;  in  the  room  back  of  that  there  were 
seven;   and  in  a  small  room  over  the  kitchen,  given  up 
to  the  men  positively  under  restraint,  there  were  five. 
Twenty-one  outsiders  could  thus  be  cared  for  at  a  time. 
On  the  third  floor  were  the  dormitories  for  club  mem- 
ber*—men  who  had  kept  sober  for  three  months  and  more, 
and  who  wore  a  star  of  a  color  denoting  the  variety  of 
their  achievements.    On  this  floor,  too,  was  a  billiard, 
card,  and  smoking  room,  accessible  to  any  one,  even  to 
outsiders,  who  had  kept  sober  for  three  weeks.    On  the 
top  floor  of  all  were  a  few  bedrooms,  formerly  those  of 
Miss  Smedley's  servants,  reserved  for  the  occasional  oc- 
cupancy of  such  grandees  as  had  preserved  their  integrity 
for  three  years  and  more;   and  here,  too,  was  the  sacred 
place  known  as  "the  lounge,"  to  which  none  were  ad- 
mitted who  didn't  wear  the  gold  or  silver  star  representing 
sobriety  for  at  least  a  year. 
The  whole  was,  therefore,  a  carefully  arranged  hierar- 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

Little  Spender  wore  the  gold  ,tar.  indicating  .  five  yew.' 
fight  with  the  devU;  and  Mou«,.  the  cook,  a  blue  one, 
which  meant  that  he  had  been  victoriou.  for  th«e  monA^ 
A^  <«her,  m  the  dub  when  Lovey  and  I  arrived  ^ 
out.,de™  like  ourwlve..  Outsider,  gave  their  word  to 
way  a  week,  generally  for  the  purpow!  of  wbering  up,  but 
beyond  d^at  nothing  wa.  a.ked  of  them.  At  the  b;8i" 
mng  of  the  .econd  week  they  could  either  continue  their 
novitiate  or  go. 

«n^^*  ^"/"Tm"'  7  ■ ;  «*''"'  ""  ^y  Spender  a.  we  .tood 
on  the  threshold  of  the  bath-room  before  I  pawed  in. 
When  the  tale  wa.  ended,  however,  the  Scotchman,  who 
Had  taken  little  or  no  part  in  our  reception,  pushed  by 
me  and  entered.  ' 

hi.''Id«iir  "^^^  '  ''"^'"  !"  "•■''■  •»  «P'»»«ion  of 
h^.  rudeness.  There  are  my  things"-he  got  down  on 
all-four,  to  .how  me  a  safety  razor  and  a  broken  cup 
containing  ,  bruMi  and  .having-.oap.  hidden  behind  one 
c^rthe  legs  of  the  bath-tub-"  and  you'll  oblige  me  by  put- 
ting  them  back  Daisy,  the  wee  bye  you  saw  at  the 
table.  IS  doing  the  same  by  your  chum.  I  make  no  doubt 
yout^own  thing,  have  been  held  in  your  last  rooming- 

andTltn  I  •'"d  "dniitted  that  this  wa.  exactly  the  case 
and  had  thanked  my  friends  for  their  courtesies,  they 
withdrew,  leaving  me  to  my  toilet. 

After  the  good  meal  the  bath  was  a  genuine  luxu^r. 
It  was  a  decent  bath-room,  kept  by  the  men,  as  all  the 
house  was  kept,  in  a  kind  of  di^jy  cleanliness.  Qeanli- 
nes.,  I  found  was  not  only  a  principle  of  the  club;  it 
was  one  of  the  first  indications  that  those  who  came  in 
for  jheker  gave  of  a  .urvival  of  self-ie.pect.  Some  of 
66 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

their  effom  in  th«  way  were  imuring  or  pathetic,  m  the 

"""t^i     I    '■     ^H"*^.  *•"  •"*»>'• ''"™»''  ""^  touching. 
While  .having  1  had  an  inipiration  that  wai  to  have 
•wne  effect  on  what  happened  to  me  afterward.    I  de- 
cided to  let  my  muitache  grow.    A.  it  grew  .trongly  i„ 
«ny  caje,  a  four  day.'  abaence  of  the  raior  had  given^ry 
upper  hp  a  deep  walnut  tinge,  and,  should  I  leave  the 
dub  after  the  week  to  which  I  had  tacitly  pledged  my- 
•elf  by  coming  there  at  all.  I  .hould  look  different  from 
when  I  entered     To  look  different  wa,  the  fim  of  the 
obicure  and  violent  longings  of  which  my  heart  wa.  full. 
M    'f,*''*  ""«•«  Po^ible  thing  to  getting  away  from 
my  old  self.    Not  to  be  the  .ame  man  at  all  a.  the  ^ 
who  had  exchanged  those  few  strange  sentences  with 
Kegina  Barry  seemed  to  be  the  goal  toward  which  I  wa* 
wiUing  to  struggle  at  any  cott  of  .acrifice. 

Having  bathed  and  shaved.  1  was  not  an  iU-looking 
fellow  till  It  came  to  putting  on  my  shirt  again.  Any 
man  who  has  wont  a  shirt  for  forty-eight  hour,  in  a  city 
or  on  a  tram  know,  what  a  horror  it  become,  in  the  ex- 
posed spot,  on  the  chest  and  about  the  wri.t..  I  had 
had  but  one  shirt  for  a  week  and  more-and  but  the  one 
•oft  collar.  You  can  see  already,  then,  that  in  spite  of 
*)me  success  in  smaitening  up  my  damp  and  threadbare 
iuit  X  left  the  bath-room  looking  abject. 

I  was  not,  however,  so  abject  as  Lovey  when  I  found 
him  again  m  the  front  sittin-ioom  down-stairs. 

In  the  back  sitting-room  our  table  companions  were  all 
arranged  in  a  row  against  the  wall.  In  spite  of  the  fact 
that  there  were  plenty  of  chairs,  they  sat  huddled  together 
on  one  bench;  and  though  there  was  tobacco,  as  there 
were  books  papers,  and  magazines,  they  sought  no  occu- 
pation. When  I  say  that  they  could  have  smoked  and 
67 


li 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

£dn't.  th*  wmch  that  had  bMn  givm  to  their  nonnal 
Mate  of  mind  will  be  apparent.  Ooae  up  to  one  another 
they  pijiaMl,  the  Scotchman  agaimt  the  piano-mover, 
and  the  piano-mover  againat  the  wee  bye  Daily,  like 
lovebird*  on  the  perch  of  a  cage  or  newly  captured  ani- 
malt  too  terrified  even  to  snap. 

Without  comment  cm  any  one'*  part,  Lovey  named 
the  front  fitdng-room  alone. 

"I  fay,  lonny,"  he  began,  fretfully,  aa  I  entered,  "thie 
ain't  no  place  for  you  and  me." 
I  tried  to  buck  him  up. 

"Oh,  well,  it'i  only  for  a  week.    We  can  ttand  it  for 
that  long.    They're  vety  civil  to  ut." 

"But  they're  watchin'  of  us  already  like  so  many 
catf." 
"Oh  no,  they're  not.  The/re  only  kind." 
"I  don't  want  none  o'  that  sort  of  kindness.  What 
do  ye  think  that  two-foot-four  of  a  Daisy  say*  to  me 
when  'e  offered  me  the  loan  of  'i*  razor?  'Lovey,'  says 
*e,  'I'm  goin'  to  'elp  ye  to  knock  off  the  booze.  It  'U 
be  terr'ble  hard  work  iibr  an  old  man  like  you.'  'To  'ell 
with  you!'  says  I.  'Ye  ain't  goin'  to  'elp  me  to  do  no 
attch  thing,  because  knock  it  off  is  somethink  I  don't 
mean.'  'Well,  what  did  you  come  in  'ere  for?'  says  'e. 
'I  come  in  'ere,'  I  says  to  'im,  'because  my  buddy  cmne 
in  'ere;  and  wherever  'e  goes  I'll  foller  'im.'" 

"Then  that's  understood,  Lovey,"  I  said,  cheerfully. 
"If  I  go  at  the  end  of  the  week,  you  go;  and  if  I  stay,  you 
stay.  We'U  be  fellas  together." 
He  shook  his  head  mournfully. 
"If  you  go  at  the  end  of  the  week,  sonny,  I  go,  too; 
but  if  you  stay — well,  I  don't  know.  I've  been  in  jails, 
but  I  'ain't  never  been  in  no  such  place  a*  this— nobody 


THE   CITY  OF  COMRADES 

wkh  no  tpimk.    Look  M  'on  in  then  noif^-nothiiik  but 

•  bunch  of  timpt." 
"You  won't  leave  me,  Loveyr 
'*ne  extinct-blue  eyes  were  raited  to  mine. 
"No*  »cnny;  I  won't  leave  ye— not  for  'ardly  aothink." 


CHAPTER  ir 


1D0NT  know  how  we  got  the  idea  that  before  we  went 
any  fanher  we  should  be  interviewed  by  Andy  Chrii- 
tian,  but  I  suppose  somebody  must  have  told  us.  We 
had  heard  of  him,  of  course.  He  was,  in  fact,  the  master 
wizard  whose  incantations  Were  wrecking  our  institutions. 
It  was  a  surprise  to  us,  therefore,  to  see,  about  nine 
o'clock,  a  brisk  little  elderly  man  blow  in  and  blow  past 
us — the  metaphor  is  the  most  expressive  I  can  use — with 
hardly  more  recognition  than  a  nod. 

"Hello,  fellows  I"  he  called  out,  as  he  passed  through 
the  hall  inid  glanced  in  at  Lovey  and  me  in  the  sitting- 
Toom.  "Hello,  boys!"  he  said,  casually,  through  the 
.second  door,  to  the  other  group,  after  which  he  went  on 
his  way  to  talk  domestic  matters  with  Mouse  in  the 
kitchen. 

He  seemed  a  mild-maimered  man  to  have  done  all  the 
diabolical  work  we  had  laid  at  his  door.  Neatly  dressed 
in  a  summery  black-and-white  check,  with  a  panama 
hat,  he  was  like  any  other  of  the  million  business  men 
who  were  on  their  way  to  New  York  offices  that  morning. 
It  was  only  when  he  came  back  from  the  kitchen  and  was 
in  conference  with  some  of  the  men  in  the  back  parlor 
that  I  caught  in  him  that  look  of  dead  and  buried  tragedy 
with  which  I  was  to  grow  so  familiar  in  other  members 
of  the  club.  Superficially  he  was  clean-shaven,  round- 
featured,  rubicund,  and  kindly,  with  a  quirk  about  the 
70 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

lip»  and  a  smile  in  his  twinkling  gray  eves  that  «»^*J 

always  about  to  tell  you  the  n^wfst^ot^    Hs  ^Tnet 

hZni"''^  »«>  «e.  when  he  came  into  th^C 

«tt.ng-room,  was  that  of  having  known  us  all  our  lives 

b^^rhrSbroZr-  ''-'  ""'^  '  '-  "'^"- 
Let  me  seel    Your  name  is — ?" 

„eUl!°°'''f,  ^\^T^  "*  *^°"8h  he  knew  hi,  name 
perf^tly  well,  only  that  for  the  second  it  had  slipped^: 

Lovey  went  forward  to  the  roll-top  desk  at  which  Mr 
tiauy.     My  name  is  Lovey,  Your  Honor." 

"lirr,  1  '^'  "P*  '^"^  '°  '=«'='=«'' "  'ittle  caper. 

^^  Is^  that  your  first  name  or  your  second  ?" 
It  s  my  only  name." 

wal^to"  X?"  '""  •"''  "'°*'-^^  "=-'•  •>«  y-  «»-•* 

buirb^t! j:;  '"^'  """'"'^  "=""' "  -'^  -'x-^y 

The  head  of  the  club  was  now  writing  in  a  ledger  his 
eye  foUowmg  the  movement  of  his  pen.  '^' 

I  see  that  you're  a  man  of  decided  opinions." 
d  Jd.':,^''^?^,.^""'  "°-^^  P"0-«."  I-vey  de- 

up.  Before  Lovey  could  protest  that  he  wasn't  „^Z 
to  put  up  no  fight  the  gentle  voice  went  on  "l^/^o! 
seem  hke  a  respectable  man,  too."  ^ 

71 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 


m 


"All  that  '11  be  a  great  help  to  you.  What's  been  your 
occupation?" 

•"Atter." 

As  our  host  was  less  used  to  the  silent  "h"  than  I, 
it  became  necessary  for  me  to  say,  "Hatter,  sir." 

I  suppose  it  was  my  voice.  Christian  looked  up  quick- 
ly, studying  me  with  a  long,  kind,  deep  regard.  Had  I 
b:en  walking  two  thousand  years  ago  on  the  hills  of 
Palestine  and  met  Some  One  on  the  road,  he  might  have 
looked  at  me  like  that. 

The  glance  fell.     Lovey's  interrogation  continued. 

"And  would  you  like  that  kind  of  job  agai'*  -if  we 
could  get  it  for  you — ultimately?" 

"I  don't  want  no  job.  Your  Honor.  I  can  look  after 
myself.  I  didn't  come  in  'ere  of  my  own  free  will — nor 
to  pass  the  buck — nor  nothink." 

There  was  an  inflection  of  surprise,  perhaps  of  dis- 
approval in  the  tone. 

"You  didn't  come  in  here  of  your  own  free  will?  I 
think  it's  the  first  time  that's  been  said  in  the  history  of 
the  club.    May  I  ask  how  it  happened  ?" 

I  couldn't  help  thinking  that  I  ought  to  intervene. 

"He  came  in  on  my  account,  sir,"  I  said,  getting  up 
and  going  forward  to  the  desk.  "He's  trying  to  keep  me 
straight." 

"That  is,  he'll  keep  straight  if  you  do?" 

"That's  it,  sir,  exactly." 

He  continued  to  write,  speaking  without  looking  up 
at  us. 

"Then  I  can't  think  of  anything  more  to  your  credit, 
Mr. — Mr.  Lovey — is  that  it?" 

"I  don't  want  no  mister.  Your  Honor  —  not  now  I 
don't." 

72 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

"men  a  man  takes  so  fine  a  stand  as  you're  taking 
toward  this  young  fellow  he's  a  mister  to  me.  I  respe^ 
him  and  treat  him  with  respect.  I  see  that  we're  meant 
to  understand  each  other  and  get  on  together." 

Poor  Lovey  had  nothing  to  say.    The  prospect  of 

TrTC-  "l    1'"  ^'"^  "^"""^  ^y  ••«  °^  heroism 
rendered  him  both  proud  and  miserable  at  once. 

When  the  writing  was  finished  the  kind  eyes  were 
again  lifted  toward  me.  Though  the  inspection  was 
so  mild,  It  pierced  me  through  and  through.  It  stiU 
seemed  to  cover  me  as  he  said:  "You  nsedn't  tell  me 
your  real  name  if  you  don't  want  to-but  in  general  we 
prefer  it. 

"I'll  tell  anything  you  ask  me,  sir.    My  name  is  Frank 
Melbury.       In  order  to  conceal  nothing,  I  added,  "As 
a  matter  offset,  it's  Francis  Worsley  Melbury  Melbury: 
"^i,""'  '*  '"  *••*  shortened  form  I've  dven  you." 
Thanks.    You're  English?" 

of  Mo"ntreS"'"*"-    ^"^  ^""^''  "  ^"  ^'''"'*  ^^"""y- 
"Married?" 
"No,  sir.     Single." 
"And  you  have  a  profession?" 
"Architect." 

YoAr"  ^°"  ^"'^^^  "  *"'  profession  here  in  Newj 

I  gave  him  the  names  of  the  offices  in  which  from  time  1 
to  time  1  had  found  employment. 
"And  would  you  like  to  work  at  it  again  r 
'I  should,  sir." 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,  we  have  a  number  of  architects, 
not  exactly  m  the  club,  but  friendly  toward  it.  and  oa 
intimate  terms  with  us.     I'll  introduce  you  to  some  of 
•  73 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

them  when — tthea  you  get  on  your  feet.    How  M  are 
you?    Thirty?" 

"Thirty-one." 

For  some  two  minutes  he  went  on  writing. 

"How  long  since  you've  been  drinking?" 

"My  last  drink  was  three  days  ago." 

"And  how  long  since  you've  been  actually  drunk?" 

"About  a  week." 

"And  before  that?" 

"It  was  pretty  nearly  all  the  time." 

"It's  a  great  advantage! to  you  to  come  to  us  sober. 
It  means  that  you  know  what  you're  doing  and  are  to 
some  extent  counting  the  cost.  Men  will  take  any  kind 
of  vow  when  they're" — his  glance  traveled  involuntarily 
to  the  back  room — "when  they're  coming  off  a  spree. 
The  difficulty  is  to  make  them  keep  their  promises  when 
they've  got  over  the  worst  of  it.     In  your  case — " 

"I've  got  a  motive,  sir." 

"Then  so  much  the  better." 

I  turned  to  Lovey. 

"Lovey,  would  you  mind  stepping  into  the  next  room? 
There's  something  I  want  to  speak  about  privately." 

"If  it's  to  let  me  in  for  worse,  sonny — " 

"No,  it  won't  let  you  in  for  anything.  It's  only  got 
to  do  with  me." 

"Then  I  don't  pry  into  no  secrets,"  he  said,  as  he 
moved  away  reluctantly;  "only,  when  fellas  is  buddies 
together — " 

"I've  a  confession  to  make,"  I  continued,  when  Lovey 
was  out  of  earshot.     "Last  nighi  I — " 

"Hold  on  I  Is  it  necessary  for  you  to  tell  me  this  or 
not?" 

I  had  to  reflect. 

74 


THE   CITY  OF  COMRADES 

"It's  only  neceisaty  in  that  I  want  you  to  know  the 
worst  of  me." 

"But  I'm  not  sure  that  we  need  to  know  that.  It 
often  happens  that  a  man  does  better  in  keeping  his 
secrets  m  his  own  soul  and  shouldering  the  full  weight 
of  their  responsibility.  Isn't  it  enough  for  us  to  know 
of  you  what  we  see?" 

"I  don't  know  that  I  can  judge  of  that." 

"Then  tell  me  this:  What  you  were  going  to  say— ia 
"  '"^''""8  for  which  you  could  be  arrested?" 

','}*''  ""''''"*  '"'■  ^^^'^^  ^  '•'»"  ■>«  arrested." 

"But  it's  an  offense  against  the  law?" 

I  nodded. 

"And  what  renders  you  immune?" 

"The  fact  that— that  the  person  most  concerned  ha»— 
has  forgiven  it." 

"Man  or  woman?" 

"Woman." 

His  eyes  wandered  along  the  cornice  as  he  thought  the 
matter  out.  I  saw  then  that  they  were  wonderfully 
clear  gray  eyes,  not  so  much  beautiful  as  perfect— perfect 
m  their  finish  as  to  edge  and  eyelash,  but  perfect  most 
of  all  because  of  their  expression  of  benignity. 

"I  don't  believe  I  should  give  that  away,"  he  said,  at 
last;      not  now,  at  any  rate.     If  you  want  to  tell  me 
Ifi^T      .       ™^"8e'l  the  subject  abruptly  by  saying. 
Is  that  the  only  shirt  you've  got?" 

I  told  him  I  had  two  or  three  clean  ones  in  my  trunk, 
but  that  that  ^as  held  by  my  last  landlord. 
How  much  did  you  owe  him?" 

I  produced  a  soiled  and  crumpled  bill.  He  looked  it 
over. 

"We'U  send  and  pay  the  bill,  and  get  your  trunk." 
7S 


f\\ 


IM:: 


THE   CITY   OF   COMRADES 

The  genenxity  almoM  took  my  breath  away. 

"Oh,  but^-" 

"We  should  be  only  advancing  the  money,"  he  ex- 
plained; "and  we  should  look  to  you  to  pay  us  back 
when  you  can.  It's  quite  a  usual  procedure  with  us,  be- 
cause it  happens  in  perhaps  six  of  our  cases  out  of  ten. 
I  don't  have  to  point  out  to  you,"  he  continued,  with  a 
smile,  "what  I'm  always  obliged  to  underscore  with 
chaps  like  those  in  there,  that  if  you  don't  make  good 
what  we  spend  on  your  account  the  loss  comes  not  on 
well-disposed  charitable  pbople  who  give  of  their  abun- 
dance, but  on  poor  men  who  steal  from  their  own  penury. 
The  very  breakfast  you  ate  this  morning  was  paid  for 
in  the  main  by  fellows  who  are  earning  from  twelve  to 
twenty-five  dollars  a  week,  and  have  families  to  sup- 
port besides." 

I  hung  my  head,  trying  to  stammer  out  a  promise  of 
{flaking  good. 

"You  see  those  boys  in  there  f  There  are  five  of  them, 
•nd  two  will  probably  stick  to  us.  That's  about  the  pro- 
portion we  keep  permanently  of  all  who  come  in.  I 
don't  know  which  two  they  will  be — you  never  can  tell. 
Perhaps  it  will  be  the  piano-mover  and  the  Scotchman; 
perhaps  the  man  they  call  Headlights  and  the  Irishman; 
perhaps  the  little  chap  and  some  other  one  of  them. 
But  whichever  they  are  they'll  chip  in  for  the  sake  of 
the  new  ones  we  shall  reclaim,  and  take  on  themselves 
the  burden  of  the  work." 

The  thought  that  for  the  comforts  I  had  enjoyed  that 
moining  I  was  dependent  on  the  sacrifice  of  men  who 
had  hardly  enough  for  their  own  children  made  me  red- 
den with  a  shame  I  think  he  understood. 

"Their  generosity  is  wonderful,"  he  went  on,  quietly; 
76 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 


"and  I  tell  it  to 


liie  you  only 


.  .       — i  became 

appreciate  how  wonderful  it  it.     It'.  th»  (-.r* 

livng  These  feUows  love  to  give.  They  love  to  have 
you  take  the  httle  they  can  offer.  You  never  had  a  meal 
at  your  own  father's  table  that  was  laid  before  you  mo" 
ungrudgmgly  th«.  the  one  you  ate  this  momi^J.  ^^ 
men  who  provide  ,t  are  doing  humble  work  all  over  the 
^r'^  T  ***.  country-because  we're  scattered  p,«tty 
sntch  of  a  „«,dle    and  every  tap  on  a  typewriter,  an^ 

^Z!^Tt*'^°^t'  ""'' '^"y  ''•8°f  =•  pick,  and ;very 
nunute  of  the  time  by  which  they  scrape  together  th^ 
penme,  and  the  quarters  and  the  dollars  they  send  in 

pra;:r 'LV'"^"'  '°^  ^"-    '  -""^  ^^  ^^  -"at 
His  glance  was  now  that  of  inquiry 

HeiiSragZ^""  ""  ""''  ^'"  '  ""'--''•  "-"y- 

"Well,  it  isn't  giving  information  to  a  wise  and  loving 

Father  as  to  what  He  had  better  do  for  us.    It's  in  tr^w 

others.  That  isn't  all  of  it.  by  any  means!  but  it's  a 
«artmg-po.„t.  Spender  tells  me  that  that  nice  fellow 
Pyiicheon  brought  you  in.  Well,  then,  every  glass^ 
soda-water  Pyncheon  draws  is  in  its  w^y  a^ray^r  for 
you.  because  the  boy's  heart  is  full  of  you.  Praver  i[ 
action-^nly  it's  kind  action."  ^ 

treZt'"/-''  '"'"'  '"'"  Ir'^'  "^'^  ""  "ff"""  to  control  the 
tremor  of  my  voice;  "I  think  I  understand  you." 

You  yoursdf  will  be  praying  all  through  this  week. 

helnZ  r?  °"  *°  \"'^  ""•  You'll  be  praying  ^ 
helpmg  that  poor  man  Lovey  to  do  the  sanie.    In  U. 

77 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 


;i; 


lit'! 


own  purblind  way^-of  coune  I  undentand  hit  type  and 
what  you're  trying  to  do  for  him — hell  be  prayingi  too. 
Prayer  it  living— only,  living  in  the  right  way."  He  taid, 
■uddenly,  "I  suppose  you  rather  dread  the  week." 

"Well,  I  do--rather— sir." 

"Then  I'll  tell  you  what  will  make  it  easier — what 
will  make  it  pass  quickly  and  turn  it  into  a  splendid 
memory."  He  nodded  again  toward  the  back  room. 
"Chum  up  with  these  fellowb  You  wouldn't,  of  course, 
be  condescending  to  them — " 

"It's  for  them  to  be  condescending  to  me." 

He  surprised  me  by  saying:  "Perhaps  it  is.  You 
know  best.  But  here  we  try  to  get  on  a  broad,  simple, 
human  footinc;  in  which  we  don't  make  comparisons. 
But  you  get  what  I  mean.  The  simplest,  kindliest  ap- 
proach is  the  best  approach.  Just  make  it  a  point  to  be 
white  with  them,  as  I'm  sure  they've  been  white  with 
you." 

I  said  I  had  never  been  more  touched  in  my  life  than 
by  the  small  kindnesses  of  the  past  two  hours. 

"That's  the  idea.  If  you  keep  on  the  watch  to  show 
the  same  sort  of  thing  it  will  not  only  make  the  time 
pass,  but  it  will  brace  you  up  mentally  and  spiritually. 
You  see,  they're  only  children.  Fundamentally  you're 
only  a  child  yourself.  We're  all  only  children,  Frank. 
Some  one  says  that  women  grow  up,  but  that>  men  never 
do.  Well,  I  don't  know  about  women,  but  I've  had  a 
good  deal  to  do  with  men — and  I've  never  found  any- 
thing but  boys.  Now  you  can  spoil  boys  by  too  much 
indulgence,  but  you  can't  spoil  them  by  too  much 
love." 

He  stopped  abruptly,  because  he  saw  what  was  hap- 
pening to  n^e. 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

The  Mxt  thine  I  hnew  wm  his  ann  acroM  my  ihouU 
den,  which  were  shaking  a*  if  I  was  in  convulnon*. 

"That't  all  right,  old  boy,"  I  heard  him  whisper  m 
«y  ear-  "Ju«  go  up  to  the  bath-room  and  lock  the  door 
and  have  it  out.  It  '11  do  you  good.  The  fellows  in 
there  won't  notice  you,  because  lots  of  them  go  through 
the  same  thing  themselves."  Still  with  his  arm  aciou 
my  shoulders  he  steered  me  toward  the  hall  "There 
you  are!  You'll  be  better  when  you  come  down.  We're 
just  boys  together,  and  there's  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of. 
Only,  when  you  see  other  fellows  come  in  through  the 

week — ^we  have  two  or  three  new  ones  every  day 

you'll  bear  with  them,  won't  you?  And  help  them  to 
take  a  brace." 

He  was  still  patting  me  tenderly  on  the  back  as  with 
head  bowed  and  shoulders  heaving  I  began  to  stumble 
up-stain. 


CHAPTER  r 


J^Y  acquaintance  with  Ralph  Coningfby  wai  the 
■t^l  hinge  on  which  my  deitiny  turned.  A  hinge  i« 
a  imall  thing  ai  compared  with  a  door,  and  so  wa«  my 
friend«hip  with  Coningtby  in  proportion  to  the  rest  of 
my  life;  but  it  became  iti  cardinal  point. 

I  met  him  fint  at  the  meeting  of  the  club  at  which  the 
Scotchman  and  the  piano-mover  presented  themselves  for 
membership.  As  to  the  five  outsiders  whom  Lovey  and  I 
had  found  on  arriving.  Christian's  prediction  was  verified. 
Three  went  out  when  their  week  was  over  and  they  had 
got  sobered  up.  Two  stayed  behind  to  go  on  with  the 
work  of  reform.  At  the  end  of  another  week  each  stood 
up  with  his  next  friend,  as  a  bridegroom  with  his  best 
man,  and  asked  to  be  taken  into  fellowship. 

That  was  at  the  great  weekly  gathering,  which  took 
place  every  Saturday  night.  Among  the  hundred  and 
fifty-odd  men  who  had  assembled  in  the  two  down-staira 
sitting-rooms  it  was  not  diflScult  to  single  out  Coningsby, 
since  he  was  the  only  man  I  could  see  in  whom  there  was 
nothing  blasted  or  scorched  or  tragic.  There  was  an- 
other there  of  whom  this  was  true,  but  I  didn't  meet  him 
till  tovrard  the  end  of  the  evening. 

I  had  now  been  some  ten  days  withm  the  four  walk 

of  the  club,  not  sobering  up,  as  you  know,  but  trying  to 

find  myself    The  figure  of  speech  is  a  good  one,  for  the 

teal  Frank  Melbury  seemed  to  have  been  lost.    Thisotbct 

80 


THE   CITY  OF  COMRADES 

•elf,  thit  telf  I  wu  uudout  to  get  rid  of,  had  left  him  in 
•ome  bright  and  relatively  innocent  world,  while  it  went 
roaming  through  a  land  of  land  and  thorns.  I  had  dii- 
dnctly  the  feeling  of  being  in  learch  of  my  genuine 
identity. 

For  this  I  sat  through  long  hours  of  every  day  doing 
absolutely  nothing— that  is,  it  was  absolutely  nothing 
•o  far  as  the  eye  could  see;  but  inwardly  the  spirit  was 
busy.  I  came,  too,  to  understand  that  that  was  the 
tecret  of  the  long,  stupefied  forenoons  and  afternoons  on 
the  part  of  my  companions.  They  were  stupefied  only 
because  sight  couldn't  follow  the  activity  of  their  occu- 
pation. Beyond  the  senses  so  easily  staggered  by  strong 
drink  there  was  a  man  endeavoring  to  come  forth  and 
claim  his  own.  In  far,  subliminal,  unexplored  regions  of 
the  personality  that  man  was  forever  at  work.  I  could 
■ee  him  at  work.  He  was  at  work  when  the  flesh  had 
reached  the  end  of  its  short  tether,  and  reeled  back  from 
its  brief  and  helpless  efforts  to  enjoy.  He  was  at  work 
when  the  sore  and  sodden  body  could  do  nothing  but  sit 
in  lumbering  idleness.  He  was  at  work  when  the  glazed 
eye  could  hardly  lift  its  stare  from  a  spot  on  the  floor. 

That  was  why  tobacco  no  longer  afl^orded  solace,  nor 
reading  distraction,  nor  an  exchange  of  anecdotes  mental 
relaxation.  I  don't  mean  to  say  that  we  indulged  in  none 
of  these  pastimes,  but  we  indulged  in  them  slightly.  On 
the  one  hand,  they  were  pale  in  comparison  with  the 
raw  excitement  our  appetites  craved;  and  on  the  other, 
they  offered  nothing  to  the  spirit  which  was,  so  to  speak, 
aching  and  clamorous.  Apart  from  the  satisfaction  we 
got  from  sure  and  regular  food  and  sleep,  our  nearest  ap- 
proach to  comfort  was  in  a  kind  of  silent,  tactual  clinging 
together.  None  of  us  wanted  to  be  really  alone.  We 
8i 


(*NSI  ond  SO  reST  CHAUT  Ne.  2) 


1^1^    l: 


A  ^^PPLED  ||SA^C3E    Inc 

.^^  "653  Eott  Uain  Strwt      ' 

^B^=  ?????•'•'■■  '^  '''»*       '■••W      USA 

^^2  ('16)  *M  -  0300  -  Phon. 

^iSB  (716)  2U  -  »W  -  foK 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

could  sit  for  hours  without  exchanging  more  than  a  casual 
word  or  two,  yrfien  it  frightened  us  to  have  no  one  else 
in  the  room.  The  sheer  promiscuity  of  bed  against  bed 
enabled  us  to  sleep  without  nightmares. 

The  task  of  chumming  up  had,  therefore,  been  an  easy 
one.  So  httle  was  demanded.  When  a  new-comer  had 
been  shown  the  ropes  of  the  house  there  was  not  much 
more  to  do  for  him.  One  could  only  silently  help  him  to 
hnd  h,s  lost  identity  as  one  was  finding  one's  own. 

Ihats  about  all  there  is  to  it,"  Andrew  aristiaa 
observed  when  I  had  said  something  of  the  sort  to  him. 
You  can  t  push  a  man  into  the  kingdom  of  heaven;  he', 
got  to  chmb  up  to  It  of  his  own  accord.  There's  no  salva- 
tion except  what  one  works  out  through  one's  own  sweat 
and  blood.^  He  gave  me  one  of  his  quick,  semi-humotous 
glwices.       I  suppose  you  know  what  salvation  is?" 

If  ^''  T  \  ^  •""*  •'""'•  »  8reat  de,l  about  it  all  my 
life,  but  I  was  far  from  sure  of  what  it  entailed  in  either 
eltort  or  accomplishment. 

"Salvation  is  being  normal.  The  intuitive  old  guys  who 
coined  language  saw  that  plainly  enough  when  they  con- 
nected the  idea  with  health.  FundamentaUy  health  is 
salvation  and  salvation  is  health-only  perfect  health, 
health  not  only  of  the  body,  but  of  the  mind.  Did  it 
ever  stnke  you  that  health  and  hoUness  and  wholeness 
arc  all  one  word?" 
I  said  it  never  had. 

"Well,  it's  wonh  thinking  about.  There's  a  lot  in  it. 
You  II  get  a  lot  out  of  it.  The  holy  man  is  not  the  hermit 
on  his  kne«i  ,n  the  desert,  or  the  saint  in  colored  glan.  or 
anything  that  we  make  to  correspond  to  them.  He's  the 
fellow  whos  whole-who's  sound  in  wind  and  limb  and 
intelligence  and  sympathy  and  everything  that  makes' 
82 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

power.  When  we  say,  'O  worship  the  J^rd  in  the  beauty 
of  hohness,  we  mean.  O  worship  the  Lord  in  the  beauty 
of  the  all-round  man,  who's  developed  in  every  direction, 
and  whose  degree  of  holiness  is  just  in  proportion  to  that 
development. 

"That's  a  big  thought,  sir,"  I  said.  "I  don't  believe 
many  people  who  speak  the  English  language  ever  get 
hold  of  It.  But  how  does  it  happen  that  one  of  the  two 
words  IS  spe<t  with  a  'w,*  while  the  other-" 

He  laughed,  showing  two  rows  of  small,  regular  white 
teeth,  as  pretty  as  a  girl's. 

"That  was  another  lot  of  intuitive  guys;   and  a  very 
neat  tnck  they  played  on  us.    They  saw  that  once  the 
Angl<^Saxon,  with  hss  fine,  big  sporting  instinct,  got  hold 
of  the  idea  that  holiness  meant  spreading  out  and  living 
out  m  all  manly  directions-and  by  that  I  don't  mean 
giving  free  rem  to  one's  appetites,  of  course-but  they 
•aw  that  once  the  idea  became  plain  to  us  the  triumph  of 
lust  would  be  lost.     So  they  inserted  that  little  bluffing. 
Winding   w,  which  doesn't  belong  there  at  all,  to  put  u, 
off  the  scent;   and  off  the  scent  we  went.    Church  and 
•tate  and  human  society  have  all  combined  to  make  holi- 
ness  one  of  the  most  anemic,  flat-chested  words  in  the 
language,  when  it's  really  a  synonym  of  normality." 
"     1  u    "^•'f  8ed  these  thoughts  in  the  narrow  hall  of  the 
cJub,  as  he  happened  to  be  passing,  and  stopped  for  a  few 
words.     It  was  always  his  way.    He  never  treated  us  to 
long  and  formal  interviews.    From  a  handclasp  and  a  few 
chance  sentences  we  got  the  secret  of  a  personality  which 
gave  out  Its  light  and  heat  like  radium,  without  effort  and 
.  without  exhaustion. 

"What  do  yer  think  'e  says  to  mef"  Lovey  demanded 
of  me  one  day.     "'Lovey,'  says  'e,  'yer^ve  got  a  terrible 
83 


■  '^ 


THE   CITY   OF   COMRADES 

responsibility  on  ye  with  that  young  fella,  Slim.  If  you 
go  under  'e  goes  under,  and  if  you  keep  straight  'e  keeps 
straight.'    What  do  yer  think  of  that?" 

"I  think  you're  doing  an  awful  lot  for  me,  Lovey" 
He  slapped  his  leg. 

"Ye  got  that  number  right,  old  son.  There's  nobody 
else  in  the  world  I'd  'a'  done  it  for.  If  you  'adn't  taken 
a  fancy  to  me,  likp,  that  night,  and  arsked  me  to  go  'ome 
with  you—  But,  say,  Slim,"  he  went  on,  confidentially, 
"wouldn't  you  like  to  'ave  a  drink?" 

Wouldn't  I  like  to  have  a  drink?  There  was  thirst  in 
the  very  rustle  of  Lovey's  throat.  There  was  the  same 
thirst  in  my  own.  It  was  more  th  a  thirst  of  the  ap- 
petite—it was  a  thirst  of  the  being,  of  whatever  had  be- 
come myself.  It  was  one  of  the  moments  at  which  the 
lost  identity  seemed  farther  away  than  ever,  and  the 
Frank  Melbury  of  the  last  three  years  the  man  in  pos- 
session. 

I  couldn't,  however,  let  Lovey  see  that. 
"Oh,  one  gets  used  to  going  without  drinks." 
"Do  ye?    I  don't.    I'd  vake  a  drink  of  'air-oil  if  any- 
body'd  give  me  one.     I'd  take  a  drink  of  ink.     Anything 
that  comes  out  of  a  bottle  'd  be  better  'n  nothink,  after 
all  this  water  from  a  jug." 

During  the  first  few  days  at  the  club  this  was  my  usual 
state,  not  of  mind,  but  of  sensation.  During  the  next  few 
days  I  passed  into  a  condition  that  I  can  best  express  as 
one  of  physical  resignation.  The  craving  for  drink  was 
not  less  insistent,  but  it  was  more  easily  denied.  Since  I 
couldn't  get  it  I  could  do  without  it,  and  not  want  to 
dash  my  head  against  a  stone.  But  after  the  words  with 
Andrew  Christian  I  have  just  recorded  I  began  to  feel — 
oh.  ever  so  si'ghtly !— that  Nature  had  a  realm  of  freedom 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

«nd  vigor  in  which  there  was  no  need  of  extraordinarr 
^mu  ants,  and  of  which  sunshine,  air.  and  wa"  r  tiS 
be  taken  as  the  symbols.  With  the  resting  of  my  over- 
excted  nerves  and  the  response  of  a  body  radicX 
healthy  to  regular  sleep  and  simple  food,  I  began  to  feel 
«  least  at  .ntervals.  that  water,  air.  and  sun'shine  wS 
the  natural  elements  to  thrive  on 

^AY^^^""""  "  ^^^"^  Coningsby  showed  me  a  man 
who  had  thnven  on  them.  He  was  the  type  to  whom 
tnost  of  us  take  at  s,ght-the  clean,  fresh,  Angl<^Saxon 

"God!  how  I  should  like  to  look  like  thati"  J  to 

myself  the  mmute  I  saw  him  come  in 

there  were  sometimes  friendly  visitors  whose  touch  with 
the  club  was  more  or  less  accidental.  I  had  no  difficulty 
•n  puttmg  this  man  down  as  one.    He  entered  as  if  he 

7TJa  ri  °'u  ""^  ^V''"'"8  °f  f"^"'^^'  ^ith  a  nod  here, 
a  handshake  there,  and  a  few  words  with  some  one  else 
rhen  for  a  mmute  he  stood,  letting  his  eyes  search  the 
room  t.I  they  rested  on  me,  where  I  stood  in  a  comer  of 
the  front  sittmg-room. 

.hJlTl,T/r  °"?  *•■"  "^'="'■"8  of  the  glance  that 
showed  he  had  found  what  he  was  looking  for.  Making 
h.s  way  through  the  groups  that  were  standing  about  h! 
came  up  and  offered  his  hand. 

I  IJT  "'"""''  ^"'^."'y'  ""'*  "^  '^•"«'«  Coningsby. 
I  thmk  you  must  be  the  same  Melbury  who  went  to  the 
Be^ux  Arts  m  the  fall  of  the  year  in  which  I  left  in  the 

Ha2!'r''°"'"'  **""  ^'"■''e*''y  '    You  used  to  know  Bully 
8s 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

"Ratherl  He  and  I  lived  together  for  a  year  in  the 
Rue  de  Seine." 

"And  he  and  I  spent  a  year  in  the  same  house  in  the 
Rue  Bonaparte." 

"And  now  he's  out  in  Red  Wing,  Minnesota,  doing  very 
well,  I  hear." 

"The  last  time  I  saw  him  was  in  London.    We  dined 
together  at  the  Piccadilly  and  did  a  theater." 
I*  And  Tommy  Runt  f    Do  you  ever  hear  of  him  ?" 
"Not  since  he  went  back  to  Melbourne;  but  that  chap 
he  was  always  about  with— Saunderson,  wasn't  it?— he 
was  killed  in  a  motor  accident  near  Glasgow." 

"So  I  hejrd.  Some  one  told  me — Pickman,  I  think  it 
was— an  Englishman— but  you  didn't  know  Pickman, 
did  you?  He  left  the  year  I  came,  which  must  have  been 
three  or  four  years  before  your  time.  By  the  way,  why 
don't  we  sit  down?" 

In  the  process  of  sitting  down  I  ren.embcred  my 
maimers. 

"Mr.  Coningsby,  won't  you  let  me  introduce  you  to 
my  irierd,  Mr.  Lovey?" 

^Lovey  was  seated,  nursing  a  knee  and  looking  as 
wretched  as  a  dog  to  whom  no  one  is  paying  the  cus- 
tomary attention.    He  resented  Coningsby's  appearance; 
he  resented  a  kind  of  talk  which  put  me  beyond  his  reach. 
When  Coningsby,  who  seated  himself  between  us,  had 
shaken  hands  and  made  some  kindly  observation,  Lovey 
replied,  peevishly: 
"I  ain't  in  'ere  for  nothink  but  to  save  Slim." 
"That's  what  the  boys  call  me,"  I  laughed,  in  ex- 
planation. 

Coningsby  having  duly  commended  this  piece  of  self- 
sacrifice,  we  went  on  widi  the  reminiscences  with  which 
86 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

w  had  begun.  It  wat  the  mott  ordinary  kind  of  break- 
wg  the  ice  between  one  man  and  another;  but  for  me 
the  wonder  of  it  was  precisely  in  that  fact.  You  have 
to  be  down  and  out  to  know  what  it  mean,  when  some 
one  treats  you  as  .f  you  had  never  been  anything  but  up 
and  m.  There  was  not  a  shade  in  Coningsby's  manner, 
nor  an  mflection  m  his  tone,  to  hint  at  the  fact  that  we 
df^\T  f  *•"  New  Netherlands  or  any  other  first- 

gentleman  would  be  impelled  .a  Quite  true  I  But  again 
kt  me  say  it,  you  would  have  to  be  in  m-     lace  to  know 

7n^  ua""""^  ***  '''  '^*'*  '°  ^"^'^  "^'^  «"=">  who  is 
impelled  to  it. 

We  stopped  talking,  of  course,  when  business  began, 
Conmgsby  giving  me  any  necessary  explanations  in  an 
undertone,  and  pointing  out  the  notables  whom  I  didn't 
already  know  by  sight. 

Ch^^i°!,uTf"""'.  ?'f""'  ^*"'«''*'  '^'«>  '"■*''  Andrew 
Chnstian  had  founded  the  club.  I  don't  believe  that  he 
had  ever  been  a  colonel,  but  he  looked  like  one;  neither 
can  I  swear  that  his  real  name  was  Straight,  though  it 

doser  to  us.  and  fits  us  more  exactly,  than  anything  given 
by  inheritance  or  baptism.  Here  was  a  man  wkh  a 
figure  as  straight  as  an  arrow  and  a  glance  as  straight  as 
a  sunbeam.  What  else  could  his  name  have  been?  With 
one  leg  slightly  shorter  than  the  other,  as  if  he  had  been 
wounded  m  battle,  a  magnificent  white  mustache,  a  mag- 
nificent  fleece  of  white  haii-he  had  all  the  air  not  only 
of  an  old  soldier,  but  of  an  old  soldier  in  high  command. 
You  wouldn  t  think,  to  look  at  him,"  Coningsby  whig- 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

"No;  he  ought  to  be  at  the  head  of  a  regiment." 
j  "But  the  odd  thing  I  notice  about  thii  club  i>  that  a 

j  man'»  status  and  occupation  in  the  world  outside  seem  to 

>  fall  away  from  him  as  soon  as  he  passes  the  door.    They 

become  irrelevant.    The  only  thing  that  counts  is  what  he 
is  as  a  man;  and  even  that  doesn't  count  for  everything." 
"What  does  count  for  everything?"  I  asked,  in  some 
curiosity. 
"That  he's  a  man  at  all." 

"That's  it  exactly,"  I  agreed,  heartily.    "I  hadn't  put 
%  «  to  myself  in  that  way;   but  I  see  that  it's  what  I've 

been  conscious  of." 

"As  an  instance  of  that  you  can  take  the  friendship 
between  Straight  and  Christian.  From  the  point  of  view 
of  the  outside  world  they're  of  types  so  diverse  that 
you'd  say  that  the  diflference  precluded  friendship  of  any  " 
kind.  You  know  what  Christian  is;  but  the  colonel  is 
hardly  what  you'd  call  a  man  of  education.  Without 
being  illiterate,  he  makes  elementary  grammatical  mis- 
takes, and  unusual  ideas  floor  him.  But  to  say  that  he 
■  and  Christian  are  like  brothers  hardly  expresses  it." 

I  ^  pondered  on  this  as  the  meeting,  with  Christian  in  the 

1  'hair,  came  to  order  and  the  routine  of  business  began. 

-  When  it  grew  uninteresting  to  people  with  no  share  in 

1 1  the  management  of  the  club  I  got  an  opportunity  to  whis- 

j!  per,  "You  settled  in  New  York?" 

I  "I'm  with  Sterling  Barry;  the  junior  of  the  four  part- 

ners." 

The  reply  seemed  to  strip  from  me  the  few  rags  of 
respectability  with  which  I  had  been  trying  to  cover 
myself  up.  Had  he  gone  on  to  say,  "And  I  saw  you 
break  into  his  house  and  steal  his  daughter's  trinkets,"  I 
should  scarcely  have  felt  myself  more  pitilessly  exposed. 
88 


THE   CITY  OF  COMRADES 

ml'Z^^r^T  '  P"*' of '''>«  the  club  had  done  for 

fessed  .t  more  or  less  as  I  should  have  owned  to  a  sifedl 

You've  worked  in  New  York  tnny  I,,  k 
when  there  was  a  chance  of  speak^     ''  ''«="'  "«=»'"• 
»„  Jlfk-      *■!"'  "'""'  '°  f'"'  '"covered  myself  as  to  be  able 

Idd    1       .'"'"r.T  "'""y  ^='"°"^  employers.     I  didn^t 
add  tha   they  had  fired  me  one  after  another  becaue  of 

^J^r:::^T'"'"  ""-  '  '"'■•'-''  '^  wouutkTthal 
"Ever  thought  of  Barry's?" 

of  mIT'' 1  *  1''"t"  °f '""'xJoction  to  him  from  McArdle 
of  Montreal;  but  I  never  presented  it"  ' 

rity. 

"Yes,  perhaps  it  was.    But  vou  see  T  a;a..u  n 
M^rdle-s  work,  though  I  studied'undeThiL'lri  w S 
afra.d  of  getung  .„to  the  same  old  rut.  I  went  to  Prit"! 

«I,n  i^       'ke  them-though  they're  not  so  severe  as  I 
too  Bond,  and  he  goes  them  one  better  " 

workTveTe^'Z    '  *'"°"'''  "'''  >°"  *°  ^^  '  >»"  of 
7      ^  "*  *"^  ''oing  on  my  own;  rather  a  big  ordet- 

*9 


i 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

fer  me,  that  it— in  which  I've  had  to  be  aa  American  M 
the  deuce,  and  yet  keep  to  the  beat  lines." 

"Like  to, "  I  managed  to  whiiper  back  at  wt  heard 
Chriitian  announce  that  two  new  men  were  now  to  be 
admitted  to  the  club. 

I  was  interested  in  the  ceremony,  having  by  this  time 
got  on  friendly  terms  with  both  the  piano-mover  and  the 
Scotchman,  and  learned  something  of  their  history.  With 
necessary  divergences  the  general  trend  of  these  tale* 
was  the  same.  Both  were  married  men,  both  had  chil- 
dren, in  both  cases  "the  home  was  broken  up" — the 
phrase  had  become  classic  in  the  club;  though  in  the  one 
instance  the  wife  had  taken  the  children  to  her  own  peo- 
ple, and  in  the  other  the  was  doing  her  best  to  support 
them  herself. 

Their  names  being  called,  there  was  a  scraping  of  chairs, 
after  which  the  two  men  lumbered  forward,  each  accom- 
panied by  his  next  friend.  The  office  of  next  friend,  as  I 
came  to  learn,  was  one  of  such  responsibility  as  to  put  a 
ttrain  on  anything  like  next  friendship.  The  Scotch- 
man's next  friend  was  a  barber,  who,  as  part  of  his  return 
for  the  club's  benefits  to  himself,  had  that  afternoon  cut 
the  hair  of  all  of  us  inmates — nineteen  in  number;  while 
the  piano-mover  had  as  his  sponsor  the  famous  Beady 
Lamont.  The  latter  pair  moved  forward  like  two  ele- 
phants, their  tread  shaking  the  floor. 

I  shall  not  describe  this  initiation  further  than  to  say 
that  everything  about  it  was  simple,  direct,  and  im- 
pressive. The  four  men  being  lined  in  front  of  Mr. 
Christian's  desk,  the  spokesman  for  the  authorities  was 
old  O)lonel  Straight. 

"The  difference  between  this  club  and  every  other 
dub,"  he  said,  in  substance,  "is  that  men  goes  to  other 
90 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 
dubs  to  amuie  theinelvef,  >nd  her.  they  come  to  fi-ht. 
Th..  club  I.  an  anny.  Any  one  who  ic=n.  it  joins  a  corp^ 
You  two  men  who  wants  to  come  in  >  th  us  'ave  got  to 
remember  that  up  to  now  you've  bee.,  on  your  own  and 
^independent;  and  now  you'll  be  entering  a  company. 
Up  to  now,  If  you  worked  you  worked  for  yourself:  if 
you  loafed  you  loafed  for  yourself;  if  you  was  lounge 
hzards  you  was  lounge  lizards  on  your  own  account  and 
no  one  elses;  and  if  you  got  drunk  no  one  but  you- 
leavng  out  your  wife  and  children;  though  why  I  leave 
them  out  God  alone  knowsl-but  if  you  got  drunk  no 
™.e  but  you  had  to  suffer.    Now  it's  going  to  be  all  dif- 

Ir«;.'/°!!r"l*"u^™"'L'^*''°"*  ''""•"8  u.,  and 
we  cant  get  drunk  without  hurting  you.  T'other  way 
round-pvery  b.t  of  fight  we  put  up  help.  you.  and  every 
DU  ot  hght  you  put  up  helps  us. 

"Now  there's  lots  of  things  I  could  say  to  you  this  eve- 
ning;  but  the  only  one  I  want  to  jam  right  home  is  this: 
You  and  us  look  at  this  thing  from  different  points  of 
view.    You  come  here  hoping  that  we're  going  to  help 
you  to  keep  straight.    That's  all  right.    So  we  are;  and 
well  all  be  on  the  job  from  this  night  forward.    You 
wont  hnd  us  taking  no  vacation,  and  your  next  friends 
Here    11  worry  you  hke  your  own  consciences.     They'll 
never  leave  you  alone  the  minute  you  ain't  safe.     You'll 
hear  em  promise  to  hunt  for  you  if  you  go  astray,  and  go 
down  into  the  ditch  with  you  and  pull  you  out.    There'll 
be  no  dive  so  deep  that  they  wort  go  after  you,  and  no 
kicks  and  curses  that  you  can  give  'em  that  they  ^on't 
stand  in  order  to  haul  you  back.    That's  all  gospel  true. 
as  you  re  going  to  find  out  if  you  go  back  on  your  promises. 
But  that  am  t  the  way  the  rest  of  us-the  hundred  and 
•ihy  of  us  that  you  see  here  to-night-looks  at  it  at  alL 
91 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

What  we  tee  ain't  two  men  we're  tumbling  over  each  other 
to  help;  we  >ee  two  men  that's  coming  to  help  ui.  And, 
oh,  men,  you'd  better  believe  that  we  need  your  help  I 
You  look  round  and  you  tec  thit  elegant  house — and  the 
beds — and  the  grub — and  everything  decent  and  reg'Iar — 
and  you  think  how  swell  we've  got  ourselves  fixed.  But 
1  tell  you,  men,  we're  fighting  for  our  life — the  whole  hun- 
dred and  fifty  of  us!  And  another  hundred  and  fifty  that 
ain't  herel  And  another  hundred  and  fifty  that's  scat- 
tered  to  the  four  winds  of  the  earth;  we're  fighting  for 
our  life;  we're  fighting  with  our  back  against  the  wall. 
We  ain't  out  of  danger  because  we've  been  a  year  or  two 
years  or  five  years  in  the  club.  We're  never  out  of  dan- 
ger. We  need  every  ounce  of  support  that  any  one  can 
11  .  I  bring  to  us;    and  here  you  fellows  come  bringing  it  I 

You're  bringing  it,  Colin  MacPherson,  and  you're  bring- 
ing it,  Tapley  Toms;  and  there  ain't  a  guy  among  us  that 
isn't  glad  and  grateful.  If  you  go  back  on  your  own 
better  selves  you  go  back  on  us  first  of  all;  and  if  cither 
of  you  falls,  you  leave  each  one  of  us  so  much  the 
weaker." 

That,  with  a  funny  story  or  two,  was  the  gist  of  it;  but 
delivered  in  a  low,  richly  vibrating  voice,  audible  in  every 
comer  of  the  room  and  addressed  directly  and  earnestly 
to  the  two  candidates,  its  effect  was  not  unlike  that  of 
Whitfield's  dying  man  preaching  to  djring  men.  All  the 
scarred,  haunted  faces,  behind  each  of  which  there  lurked 
memories  blacker  than  those  of  the  madhouse,  were 
turned  toward  the  speaker  raptly.  Knowledge  of  their 
own  hearts  and  knowledge  of  his  gave  the  words  a  power 
and  a  value  beyond  anything  they  carried  on  the  surface 
The  red-hot  experience  of  a  hundred  and  fifty  men  wat 
poured  molten  into  the  minute,  to  give  to  the  promises 
9» 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

At  two  pottulanu  were  pmendy  called  on  to  make  a 
kind  of  iron  vigor. 

Thote  promiiea  were  limple.  Colin  MacPhenon  and 
Tapley  Tomi  took  the  total-abitinence  pledge  for  a  week, 
after  which  they  would  be  aiked  to  renew  it  for  limilar 
periods  till  they  felt  strong  enough  to  take  it  for  a  month. 
They  would  remain  as  residents  of  the  club  till  morally 
reestablished,  but  they  would  look  for  work,  in  which  the 
club  would  assist  them,  and  send  at  least  three-quarten 
of  their  earnings  to  their  wives.  As  soon  as  they  were 
•trong  enough  they  vould  set  up  homes  for  their  families 
again,  and  try  to  atone  for  thi  .  'ailure  in  the  mean  time. 
They  would  do  their  best  to  strengthen  other  it  mbers  of 
the  club,  and  to  live  in  peace  with  them.  T  religious 
question  was  shelved  by  asking  each  man  to  give  his  word 
to  reconnect  himself  with  the  church  in  which  he  had 
been  brought  up. 

The  promises  exacted  of  the  next  friends  were,  as  be- 
came veterans,  more  severe.  They  were  to  be  guardians 
of  the  most  zealous  activity,  and  shrink  from  no  insult  or 
mjury  in  the  exercise  of  their  functions.  If  their  charges 
fell  irretrievably  away,  their  brothers  in  the  club  would 
be  sorry  for  them,  even  though  the  guilt  would  not  be 
laid  at  their  door. 

When  some  twenty  or  thirty  menibers  had  renewed 
their  vows  for  a  third  or  fourth  or  fifth  week,  as  the  case 
happened  to  be,  the  meeting  broke  up  for  refreshments. 
It  was  during  this  finale  to  the  evening  that  Coningsby 
brought  up  a  man  somewhat  of  his  own  type,  and  yet  dif- 
ferent. He  was  different  in  that,  though  of  the  same  rank 
and  age,  he  was  tall  and  dark,  and  carred  himself  with  a 
slight  stoop  of  the  shoulders.  An  olive  complexion 
touched  off  with  well-rounded  black  eyebrows  and  a  neat 
93 


THE   CITY  DF   COMRADES 


h 


black  mustache  made  one  take  him  at  first  for  a  foteigner, 
while  the  dreaminess  of  the  dark  eyes  was  melancholy 
and  introspective,  if  not  quite  despondent. 

"Melbury,  I  want  you  to  know  Doctor  Cantyte,  who 
holds  the  honorable  office  of  physician  in  ordinary  to  the 
club." 

Once  more  I  was  in  conversation  with  a  man  of  ante- 
cedents similar  to  my  own,  and  once  more  the  breaking 
of  the  ice  was  that  between  men  accustomed  to  the  same 
order  of  associations.  In  this  case  we  found  them  in 
Cantyre's  tourist  recollections  of  Montreal  and  Quebec, 
and  his  enjoyment  of  winter  sports. 


CHAPTER  FI 

'THERE  was  nothing  more  than  this  to  the  meeting 
*    that  night,  but  early  the  next  afternoon  I  was  called 
to  the  telephone.    As  such  a  summons  was  rare  in  the 
..«  „''f"V.°  *'"'  ""strument  in  some  trepidation. 
Hellol    This  is  Frank  Melbury." 

"This  is  Doctor  Cantyre.  You  remember  that  we  met 
last  evemngr 

"Oh,  rather!" 

"I'm  motoring  out  in  my  runabout  to  see  a  patient  who 
hves  a  few  miles  up  the  river,  and  I  want  you  to  come 

The  invitation,  which  would  mean  nothing  to  you  but 
a  yes  or  a  no,  struck  me  almost  speechless.  There  was 
hrst  the  pleasure  of  it.  I  have  not  laid  stress  on  the  fact 
that  the  weather  was  sickeningly  hot,  because  it  didn't 
enter  into  our  considerations.  We  were  too  deeply  con- 
cemed  with  other  things  to  care  much  that  the  house  was 
sofling;  and  yet  stifling  it  was.  But  more  important  than 
that  was  the  fact  that  any  one  in  the  world  should  want 
to  show  me  this  courtesy.  Remember  that  I  had  been  be- 
yond  the  teach  of  courtesies.  A  drink  from  some  one  who 
would  expect  me  to  give  him  a  drink  in  return  was  the 
utmost  I  had  known  in  this  direction  for  months,  and  L 
might  say  for  years.  ^ 

Is  it  any  wonder  that  in  my  reply  I  stammeied  and 
stuttered  and  nearly  sobbed? 
9S 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 


l\ 


|i  ;f 


"Oh,  but,  I  say,  I — I  look  too  beattly  for  an  expedition 
of— of  that  tort.  I'm  awfully  sorry,  but — but  I — well, 
you  know  how  it  is." 

"Oh,  get  out  I  You've  got  to  have  the  air.  I'm  your 
doctor.  I'm  not  going  to  see  you  cooped  up  there  day 
after  day  in  weather  like  this.  Besides,  I'm  bringing 
along  a  couple  of  dust-coats — the  roads  will  be  dusty  part 
of  the  way — and  we  shall  both  be  covered  up.  Expect 
me  by  half  past  two." 

As  he  put  up  the  receiver  without  waiting  for  further 
protests,  there  was  nothing  for  me  but  submission. 

"I've  been  'ere  as  long  as  you  'ave,"  Lovey  complained 
when  I  told  him  of  my  invitation,  "and  nobody  don't  ask 
me  to  go  hout  in  no  automobiles." 

"Oh,  but  they  will." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Them  swells  '11  take  you  away,  sonny.  See  if  they 
don't." 

"Not  from  you,  Lovey." 

He  grabbed  me  by  the  arm. 

"Will  you  promise  me  that,  Slim?" 

"Yes,  Lovey;   I  promise  you." 

"And  we'll  go  on  being  buddies,  even  when  the  rich 
guys  talks  to  you  about  all  them  swell  things?" 

"Yes,  Lovey.     We're  buddies  for  life." 

With  this  Mizpah  between  us  he  released  my  arm  and 
I  was  able  to  go  and  make  my  preparations. 

In  spite  of  the  heat  and  the  fact  that  on  a  windless  day 
there  was  no  dust  to  speak  of,  Cantyre  was  buttoned  up 
in  a  dust-coat.  It  would  have  seemed  the  last  word  in 
tact  if  he  hadn't  gone  further  by  pretending  to  be  occu- 
pied in  doing  something  to  the  steering-wheel  while  I 
bid  my  seedy  blue  serge  in  the  long  linen  garment  he 
96 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

handed  me  out.  As  even  an  old  golf-cap  can  look  pretty 
decent,  I  was  really  like  anybody  else  by  the  time  I  had 
snuggled  myself  in  by  his  side. 

During  the  first  mile  or  two  of  the  way  I  could  hardly 
listen  to  Cantyre,  to  say  nothing  of  making  conversation. 
In  spasmodic  sentences  between  his  spells  of  attention  to 
the  traffic  he  told  me  of  his  patient  and  where  she  lived; 
but  as  it  was  nothing  I  was  obliged  to  register  in  my 
mmd,  I  could  give  myself  to  the  wonder  of  the  occasion, 
in  awe  at  the  miracle  which  had  restored  me  to  something 
like  my  old  place  in  the  world  at  the  very  moment  when 
I  seemed  farthest  away  from  it.  Here  I  was,  with  not  a 
penny  to  my  name  and  not  two  coats  to  my  back,  tooling 
along  like  a  gentleman  with  a  gentleman,  and  as  a  man 
with  his  friend.  Moreover,  here  I  was  with  a  new  revela- 
tion, a  convincing  revelation,  of  something  I  had  long 
since  ceased  to  believe— that  in  this  world  there  was 
such  a  thing  as  active  brotherly  kindness. 

I  came  out  of  these  thoughts  to  find  that  we  were  fol- 
lowing the  avenue  with  part  of  which  I  had  made  myself 
so  familiar  ten  days  before.  I  began  to  ask  myself  if 
Cantyre  had  a  motive  in  bringing  mo  this  way.  The 
houses  were  thinning  out.  Vacant  lots  became  frequent. 
I  noted  the  southern  limit  of  my  pacings  up  and  down 
on  that  strange  midnight.  Cantyre  slowed  the  pace 
perceptibly.  My  heart  thumped.  If  he  accused  me  of 
anything,  I  was  resolved  to  confess  all. 

As  we  passed  one  particular  vacant  lot,  a  tangle  of 
nettle,  fireweed,  and  blue  succory,  I  noticed  that  Can- 
tyre's  gaze  roamed  round  about  it,  to  the  neglect  of  the 
machine.  We  had  slowed  down  to  perhaps  ten  mUes 
an  hour. 

"Do  you  know  whose  house  that  is?"  he  asked,  suddenly. 
97 


THE   CITY  OF  COMRADES 


m 


I 


But  I  refused  to  betray  myself  before  it  was  necestaiy. 

"Whose?"  I  riposted. 

"Sterling  Barry,  the  architect's." 

The  machine  almost  stopped.  He  looked  the  fa^ada 
up  and  down,  saying,  as  he  did  so:  "It's  closed  for  the 
season.  They  left  town  a  few  days  ago.  Barry's  bought 
the  old  Homblower  place  at  Rosyth,  Long  Island." 

To  my  relief,  we  spea  on  again;  but  I  was  not  long 
in  learning  the  motive  behind  his  interest. 

Chiefly  for  the  sake  of  not  seeming  dumb,  I  said,  a* 
we  got  into  the  country,  "You  and  Ralph  Coningsby  at* 
by  way  of  being  great  friends,  aren't  you?" 

"No,"  he  replied,  promptly.  "I  see  him  when  I  g* 
to  the  club;  not  very  often  elsewhere.  I  know  his 
sister,  Elsie  Coningsby,  better.  Not  that  I  know  her 
very  well.  She  happens  to  be  ?  great  friend  of — of  a — 
of  a  great  friend — or,  rather,  some  one  who  was  a  great 
friend — of  mine.    That's  all." 

So  that  was  it! 

I  said,  after  we  had  spun  along  some  few  miles  more, 
"Your  name  is  Stephen,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes.    How  did  you  know?" 

I  hedged.  "Oh,  I  must  have  heard  some  one  call  you 
that." 

"That's  funny.  Hardly  any  one  does.  They  mostly 
say  Cantyre — or  just  doctor."  He  added,  after  a  minute 
or  two,  "You  call  me  Stephen,  and  I'll  call  you  Frank." 

Once  more  the  swift  march  of  happenings  gave  me  a 
slight  shock. 

"Oh,  but  we  hardly  know  each  other." 

"That  would  be  true  if  there  weren't  friendships  that 
outd-  tance  acquaintanceships." 

"Oh,  if  you  look  at  it  that  way—" 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 
"That's  the  way  it  strike*  me." 
"But,  good  HeavensI   man,  think  of  what-of  what 
I  ami 

His  gaze  was  fixed  on  the  stretch  of  road  ahead  of 
mm. 

"What's  that  got  to  do  with  it?  It  wouldn't  make 
any  difference  to  me  if  you  were  a  murderer  or  a 
thief. 

I^How  do  you  know  I'm  not?"  I  couldn't  help  asking. 
I  dc:i  t  know  that  you're  not;   but  I  say  it  wouldn't 
make  any  difference  to  me  if  you  were." 

The  word  I  am  tempted  to  use  of  myself  at  this  un- 
expected offer  of  good-will  is  flabbergasted.  I  am  not 
emotional;  still  less  am  I  ser-imental;  both  in  sentiment 
and  emotion  my  tendency  is  to  go  slow. 

After  a  brief  silence  I  said:  "Look  here!  Do  /ou  go 
round  making  friends  among  the  riffraff  of  mankind?" 
I  don't  go  round  making  friends  among  people  of  any 
sort.  I'm  not  the  friendly  type.  I  know  lots  of  people, 
of  course;  but -but  I  don't  get  beyond  just  knowing 
them. 

"Is  that  because  you  don't  want  to?" 

"Not  altogether.  I'm  a— I'm  a  lonesome  sort  of  bloke. 
I  never  was  a  good  mixer;  and  when  you're  not  that, 
other  fellows  instinctively  close  up  their  ranks  against 
you  and  shut  you  out.  Not  that  that  matters  to  me.  I 
hardly  ever  see  a  lot  with  whom  I  should  want  to  get  in. 
You  re— you're  an  exception." 

"And  for  Heaven's  sake,  why?" 

"Oh,  for  two  or  three  reasons— which  I'm  not  going 
to  tell  you.    One  of  these  days  you  may  find  out." 

We  left  the  subject  there  and  sped  along  in  silence. 

This,  then,  was  the  man  Regina  Bany  had  turned 
99 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 


l^ 


Mm 


down;  and,  notwithstanding  hit  kindness  to  myself,  I 
could  understand  her  doing  it.  For  a  high-spirited  giri 
■uch  as  she  evidently  was  he  would  have  been  too  melaa- 
choly.  "Very  nice"  was  what  she  had  called  him,  and 
very  nir«  he  was;  but  he  lacked  the  something  thorough- 
ly masculine  that  means  mote  to  women  than  to  men. 
Men  are  used  to  the  eternal-feminine  streak  in  themselves 
and  one  another;  ^jut  women  put  up  with  it  only  when 
it  is  like  a  flaw  in  an  emerald,  noticeable  to  the  expert, 
but  to  no  one  else. 

I  asked  him  how  he  came  to  be  what  G>ningsby  called 
physician  in  ordinary  to  the  club. 

"By  accident.  Rufus  Legrand  asked  me  to  go  over 
and  see  what  I  could  do  for  a  bad  case  of  D.  T." 

"He's  the  rector  of  the  church  opposite,  isn't  he?" 

"Yes,  and  an  awfully  good  sort.  Only  parson  I  know 
who  thinks  more  of  God  than  he  does  of  a  church.  I 
shouldn't  be  surprised  if  one  of  these  days  he  got  the  trot 
•pirit  of  religion." 

"What's  that?" 

"What  they're  doing  at  the  Down  and  Out." 

"Oh,  but  they  skip  religion  there  altogether." 

"They  don't  skip  religion;  Jiey  only  skip  the  word — 
and  for  a  reason." 

"What  reasonr 

"The  reason  that  it's  been  so  misapplied  as  to  have 
become  nearly  unintelligible.  If  you  told  the  men  at 
the  club  that  such  and  such  a  thing  was  religion  the3r'd 
most  of  'em  kick  like  the  deuce;  but  when  they  get  the 
thing  without  explanation  they  take  to  it  every  time. 
But  you  were  asking  me  about  my  connection  with  the 
club.  It  began  four  years  ago,  when  they  first  got  into 
Miss  Smedley'*  house.    Fellow  had  the  old-fashioned 

100 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

honori-bad.    At  I'd  been  making  dipwmania  a  ipecial- 
*''ii^'         railroaded  me  in,  and  there  I've  itayed." 

When  we  drew  up  at  the  gate  of  an  old  yellow  man- 
•lon  jtanding  m  laige  grounds  Cantyre  left  me  in  the 
machme  while  he  went  in  to  visit  his  patient.  The  blue- 
green  hills  were  just  beginning  to  veil  themselves  in  the 
diaphanous  mauve  of  afternoon,  and  between  them  the 
nver  with  its  varied  life  flowed  silently  and  rapidly.  It 
was  strange  to  me  to  remember  that  a  short  tine  ago  I 
had  been  wishing  myself  under  it,  and  that  this  very 
water  would  be  washing  the  oo»y,  moss-grown  pile*  of 
Greeley  s  Shp. 


CHAPTER  FII 


li     ! 

I'    '? 


ii   iii 


NO  later  than  that  evening  my  life  took  ftill  another 
nep. 

A  little  before  nine,  just  as  I  was  about  to  go  to  bed — 
our  hours  at  the  club  were  eaily — Ralph  Coningsby 
dropped  in  for  a  word  with  me.  I  happened  to  be  at 
the  foot  of  the  stairs  in  the  hall  when  Spender  admitted 
him,  and  he  refused  to  come  farther  inside. 

"Been  dining  with  my  wife's  father  and  mother  over 
the  way,"  he  said,  in  explanation  of  his  dinner  jacket  and 
black  tie,  "and  just  ran  across  to  say  something  while 
I  was  in  the  neighborhood.  You  said  last  night  you'd 
come  and  see  the  Grace  Mcinorial  with  me." 

"If  you  say  so,"  I  smiled,  "I  suppose  I  must  have; 
but  it's  the  first  time  to  my  knowledge  that  I  ever  heard 
of  it." 

"Oh,  that's  the  bit  of  work  I  told  you  about — the 
thing  I'm  doing  on  my  own.  It's  over  here  at  St.  David's. 
You  see,  when  Charlie  Grace  died  he  left  a  sum  of  money 
to  build  and  endow  this  institution  in  memory  of  his 
father." 

I  S'liilf  d  again. 

"I  knc«7  I  must  have  heard  the  name  of  Charlie  Grace, 
but  it  seems  to  have  slipped  my  memory.    All  the  same — " 

"I'll  tell  you  about  him  to-morrow.     I  merely  want  to 
say  now  that  I'll  look  in  about  ten  in  the  morning,  and 
take  you  across  the  street — " 
102 


THE  CITY  OP  COMRADES 

^u^tri,^:^  '^  *"  '^'^ » ^  »'^«— 

"I  don't  know  about  that,  Coningiby.    The  fact  >. 
Imnot-    W,ll.hangitall!    Can't  youL?    I  havl't 

Where  I  m  hkely  to  nin  mto  decent  people." 

painted  T*  """  '?*°  "^  °'"  •"•*  carpenter  and 
painter..  Im  not  going  to  take  no  for  anVnswer  olJ 
chap  Be.uJes.  there',  method  in  thi.  ZdZTltt 
now  don't  buckl-for  I'm  going  to  put  yo"  onT jU  " 

I  could  only  naie  vacantly.  J-  «"»•  »  JOD. 

"On  a  job?" 

1 II  tell  you  about  that  to-morrow,  too.  For  a  chap  with 
your  training  it  will  be  office-boy',  work;  but  a.  W« 
doing  nothing  else  for  the  moment-"  ^ 

wJr.lotTJ'"  *°  "^  ^"  ^  •'"'"y  ''«P*  *"  night.  It 
w"  ^«  of  r*^  °!  T''  ''°"'  *«  «cited  me;  it 
wa.  that  of  being  gradually  drawn  into  the  .pher.^  in 

^  oJh«htr"*!?^"".^'"y-  ^-""iUrcena^ 
as  to  whether  I  wanted  to  do  that  or  not.  There  was  no 
hour  of  the  day  when  1  didn't  think  of  her.  andTetTw^ 

SwU'^^  I'JT "'  *"*"'"""'"  *^"  *'  ~"'^^" 

K  I  co^M  7        tH'  *"**  "  '''•**  had  become  of  me. 

i^tL«"'h?vr;'  hTj"mT?  f  fnT"^."^  *-'"« ''- 

u.^  .L     "j  '"6,™  see  me  I  should  have  jumped  at  if 

were^ha  l!     I.         ^"T"  •"'  "X  '^th  »>«  eyes,  "You 
were  the  man  who  came  into  my  room  and  tried  to  rob 
me,    I  would  have  .hot  myself. 
193 


!1 


I!  :< 


I    I 


I 

111 


THE   CITY  OF  COMRADES 

And  yet  I  had  to  admit  the  fact  that  thi«  danger  wa* 
in  the  air.  Ralph  Coningtby'i  sitter  wat  the  Eltie  of 
that  tragic  night;  Cantyre  wat  the  Stephen.  I  wat  being 
offered  work  by  Sterling  Barry't  partner,  and  might  toon 
be  doing  it  for  Sterling  Barry  himtelf.  The  fatality  that , 
brought  about  these  unfoldings  might  go  farther  still, 
and  before  I  knew  it  I  might  find  myself  in  the  precise 
situation  that  filled  me  with  terror — and  yet  made  me 
shiver  with  a  kind  of  harsh  delight.  Before  I  could  ileep 
I  had  to  make  a  compromise  with  my  courage.  I  would 
not  shoot  myself  rather  than  meet  her.  I  would  meet 
her  first,  if  it  had  to  be.  I  would  take  that  one  draft  of 
the  joy  I  had  put  forever  out  of  reach— and  shoot  myself 
afterward. 

But  in  the  morning  I  was  more  self-confident.  Having 
examined  myself  carefully  in  the  cracked  mirror  in  the 
bath-room,  I  found  that  my  mustache,  which  had  grown 
tolerably  long  and  thick,  changed  ir>y  appearance  not  a 
little.  Moreover,  food,  rest,  and  oriety  had  smoothed 
away  the  unspeakable  haggardness  that  had  creased  my 
forehead,  hardened  my  mouth,  and  burnt  into  my  eyes 
that  woebegone  desolation  which  I  had  noticed  among 
my  companions  when  I  arrived  at  the  club.  It  is  no  ex- 
aggeration to  say  that  I  was  not  only  younger  by  ten 
years,  but  that  I  was  changed  in  looks,  as  a  landscape 
is  changed  when,  after  being  swept  by  rains,  it  is  bathed 
in  sunshine.  The  one  hope  I  built  on  all  this  was  that, 
were  I  to  meet  Regina  Barry  face  to  face,  she  would  not 
recognize  me  at  a  first  glance,  while  I  could  keep  her 
from  getting  a  second. 

On  the  way  across  the  street  Coningsby  told  me  some- 
thing of  Charlie  Grace  and  his  memorial.    He  had  been 
the  son  of  %  former  rector  of  St.  David's — an  important 
104 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

«P«..  d«ire  of  the  widow.  uTcl^.rli^c'^^Z  he' 

^^hT?'    r      •  L-  """"«  »""'""  *»>«  house  would  be 

-:?k  !i.^"       •  *•"  *"""  mMsurements  of  each  room 
with  the  di.pontion  of  the  wall  .pace,     Durina  tk  ' 

mer  .he  could  thu.  consider  wh^e  wS,  d  hVvtVot 
when  the  time  came  in  October 

WW  1040  Oothic  rectory,  we  had  th..  ]^^u  e  ^l  j  "»'""" 
.puriou.  ,840  Gothic^hurchln  fi"^?  °'*Vr''^' 
morial  had  to  be  fitted  in  iLl"  !i    l      l         ^'"^  """ 

^  ;„  n„       ^         ' "  '^"^'^'°<"n.  a  gymnasium,  bathl 

and  so  on,  and  open  to  those  who  were  properly  tnw^ 

of  both  atxes  and  all  amx     rv  -l  "F"'y  enrolled, 

^         ««es  ana  au  ages.    Of  the  committee  in  charge 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

Mn.  Cooingtby  waa  ippanmly  the  moving  ipirit,  dM  j^ 
Mn.  Grace  wu  lewrvins  to  hendf  the  pleaaun  of  6ttia% 
the  houM  up. 

Before  going  innde  we  ditcuned  the  difficukie*  of  hv 
moni.  a  modem  building  with  the  effbitt  of  the  eariy 
nineteenth  century,  and  I  had  an  opportunity  to  con*- 
mend  Coningtby'*  judgment.  He  had  kept  to  the 
brownitone  of  the  church  and  rectory,  and  had  tuggeated 
their  apirit  while  working  on  lober,  well-proportioned 
linea. 

In  the  middle  of  thia  I  broke  oiF  to  lay.  "Look  here, 
old  chapl  I  hope  you're  not  inventing  thia  job  of  youn 
juat  for  the  aake  of  giving  me  aomething  to  do." 

Hia  'rank  gaze  convinced  me. 

"Honett,  I'm  not.  Mra.  Grace  ia  particularly  anxioua 
to  have  the  meaiurementi  lent  down  to  her  at  Roiyth, 
and  we're  ao  short-handed — " 

"Then  that's  all  right.  Let'a  go  in.  and  yon  can 
•how  me  what  I'm  to  do." 

As  Coningsby  had  said,  it  waa  office-boy's  work,  but 
it  suited  me.  It  was  a  matter  of  getting  broken  in 
again,  and-^whether  it  came  by  accident  or  my  friend's 
good-heartedness — an  easy  job  in  which  there  was  no 
thinking  or  responsibility  was  the  most  effective  means 
that  could  have  been  found  of  nursing  me  along.  At 
the  end  of  a  week  I  was  treated  to  the  well-nigh  incredible 
wonder  of  a  check. 

Early  on  a  Sunday  morning  I  took  it  to  Giristian, 
asking  that  it  ahould  be  turned  in  toward  my  expenses 
at  the  club. 

Having  read  its  amount,  he  held  it  in  his  fingers,  twist- 
ing it  and  turning  it. 

"You  see,  Frank,"  he  said,  after  thinking  for  a  minute, 
io6 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

**•  primtiy  object  of  the  dub  w  not  to  be  piid  for 
whK  It  .pendt-though  that  ii  an  object-it',  to  help 
WW.  to  get  on  their  feet.  Of  you  nineteen  chap,  who 
•le  in  the  houM  at  pre^nt  twelve  are  regiUariy  paying 
for  their  board  «,d  lodging,  and  that  p«,fy  well  caS^ 
u.  .long.  If  there',  a  deficit  it'.  cove«d  by  the  bTck 
payment,  of  men  who've  gone  out  and  who  are  making 

■^■.n     ,    "  **"•  ""*  P«»«ng  fof  the  minute-" 
But  I  ihould  like  to  pay  it,  Mr." 

„,Zr  M  ~T'  .''"?  "'•  *  ''"*"'°"  "'  ''•'«  "  ««« 
Mgent.  Now  thi.  ,m't  uigent;  we  can  extend  your 
credit;  wherea.,  the  fim  bit  of  bluff  we've  all  got  to  put 
up  when  were  puUing  ourwive.  together  it  in  clothw." 

1  .aid  for  about  three  week.. 

"Then  keep  thi.  chfck,"  he  pursued,  handing  it  back 
tome,    till  you  get  a.  much  again.    That  will  be  enough 

Brother^all  our  fellow,  go  to  hini-and  he'U  adviae 
you  to  the  be.t  advantage." 

The  word,  were  accompanied  by  «uch  a  mile  that  I. 
WHO  am  not  emotional,  felt  my  eye.  mart. 


■:ii  5 


if-.' 


CHAPTER  7111 

THE  summer  passed  with  no  more  than  two  or  three 
other  incidents  worth  the  jotting  down. 

In  the  first  place,  the  day  arrived  when  I  had  to  make 
tip  my  mind  either  to  leave  the  club  or  to  join  it. 
Expecting  some  opposition  from  Lovey  as  to  joining  it, 
I  was  surprised  to  find  him  take  the  suggestion  com- 
placently. 

"I've  found  out,"  he  whispered  to  me,  "that  yer  can 
jine  this  club — and  fall.  Yer  can  fall  three  times  before 
-they'll  turn  ye  out." 

"Oh,  but  you  wouldn't  want  to  fall  in  cold  blood." 

"Well,"  he  muttered,  doubtfully,  "I  ain't  partic'lar 
about  the  blood.  Now  my  hadvice  'd  be  this:  'Ere  we 
ait  in  July.  That's  all  right;  we  can  jine.  Then  in 
Haugust  we  can  'ave  a  wee  little  bit  of  a  fall — ^just  two 
or  three  days  like.  We  can  do  the  same  in  September; 
and  the  same  in  Hoctober.  That  '11  use  up  ourthree  times, 
and  we  can  come  back  under  cover  for  the  worst  months 
of  the  winter.  We  can't  fall  no  more  after  that;  but  in 
the  spring  we  can  try  somethink  else.  There's  always 
things." 

"And  suppose  I  don't  mean  to  fall?" 

He  looked  hurt. 

"Oh,  if  you  can  keep  straight  without  me — " 

"But  if  I  can't,  Lovey?  If  I  must  keep  straight  and 
need  you  to  help  me?" 

ig8 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

«!„n„      ""'V^l'"  ^  •=°«^'"«^.  "another  point  of  view? 
Suppose  we  did  what  you  suggest,  do  you  tWnk  itwodd 

"nu     r*  ""  *''"«'  ™~  f'"""^  decently?" 
^^Oh.  .f  you  «  going  to  .tart  out  t«atin'  people  de- 

to^S  "'^  ''°'''"'*  "*'    ^«  ««  -Jo  ^you  and  I 
He  drew  a  deep  sigh. 

But  in  the  end  we  were  both  admitted  at  one  of  the 
Saturday^venmg  meetings  with,  as  usual.a  large  «theri„! 
offnends.  and  some  bracing  words  from  S  rffght      P^ 

TsaZ  ZlT  "  tT  '"■'"'''  ="*«'  ''"'^  Spender  diS 

jome  minutes  of  every  lunchZulTo^rh^ 

JlrrK    '  Tu^u"  '^"""*'  ^^«y  ^'^•^  J°''  of  washing  X 

Whom  the  club  had  given  a  veritable  new  birth. 

was  stil!  dTnrri,"  "■""'''"  •'="*  "''^"  P'^"^  while  I 
tie  ti;^   ^  the  measurements  at  the  memorial.     By 
the  time  they  were  finished  Coningsby  had  a  new  o.  -  ,«I 
As  .t  was  the  middle  of  July,  heU  a^LsTo  «ke  ht 

Ca^rr,  '''°,''"''  •^''"''^'"  *°  ^J-"  ^""■y  for  a  month 

Carpenters,  plasterers,  painters,  and  plumber  we«"Xt 

109 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 


hi 


work  on  the  building,  and  they  couldn't  be  left  without 
oyersight.  Would  I  undertake  to  give  that — at  a  iea(OD- 
able  salary? 

I  had  grown  familiar  with  the  work  by  this  time,  and 
had  been  able  to  throw  into  the  furtherance  of  Coning** 
by's  plans  an  enthusiasm  largely  sprung  of  gratitude. 
In  addition  I  was  getting  back  my  self-confidence  in  pro- 
portion as  I  got  back  my  self-respect.  The  fact,  too, 
that  in  the  new  summer  suit  and  straw  hat  to  which  the 
colonel's  advice  had  helped  me  I  could  go  about  the 
streets  without  being  ashamed  of  myself  did  something 
to  restore  my  natural  poise. 

I  could  see  that  by  taking  this  work  I  should  really  be 
helping  Coningsby.  He  needed  the  rest;  his  wife  and 
babies  undoubtedly  needed  the  change.  It  was  not 
easy  for  a  man  with  so  important  a  piece  of  work  as  this 
on  hand  to  get  any  one  satisfactorily  to  take  his  place. 
I  could  accept  the  offer,  then,  without  the  suspicion — 
which  any  man  would  hate — that  it  was  being  made  to 
roe  from  motives  of  philanthropy.  I  was  really  being 
useful — more  useful  than  in  taking  the  measurements  for 
Mrs.  Grace,  which  any  novice  could  have  done — and 
making  a  creditable  living  for  the  first  time  in  years. 

Then,  too,  I  had  a  great  deal  of  Cantyre's  company. 
He  spent  most  of  the  summer  in  town;  chiefly  because 
of  his  patients,  but  partly  from  a  lack  of  incentive  in 
going  away.  He  explained  that  lack  of  incentive  to  me 
during  one  of  the  spins  in  his  runabout  to  which  he 
treated  me  on  three  or  four  evenings  a  week.  Now  and 
then  I  worked  Lovey  off  on  him  for  an  outing,  but  he, 
Cantyre,  was  generally  a  little  peevish  after  such  occa- 
sions. It  was  not  that  he  objected  to  giving  Lovey  or 
any  one  else  the  air;  it  was  that  he  suspected  me  of  not 
no 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

•train  of  the  jealousy  of  school^rls, 

^Oh     'S"'T°"'  ^°-"«  ."y  ■"="  ^-^  "^^  h™  °«  of  it. 

Oh,  I II  pull  round  in  time,"  he  said,  in  his  iesiim»l 

Lfeless  tone.    "If  you  knew  the  reason-"  '^    ' 

««^  J'T  *'"' """""'  °f  =°"™-  My  conscience  never 
ceased  to  plague  nje  with  the  fac  that,  though  I  could 
«tum  Regina  B,rnr's  trinkets,  Cantyre's  secret  was  a 
theft  I  couldn't  ,et  nd  of.  It  was,  indeed,  partly  to  lead 
iZZ  r  "     ''.'"^  "  *°  ""=  °f  •'■»  °^  ''--<'.«<'  that 

"I  suppose  it's  about  a  girl." 

tot '°rnA"T'''r,"!  *'"•*  ^  *'"'"«''*  •«  ^='''  »°t  going 

to  respond  to  this  challenge,  when  he  said,  "Yes." 
^  Wouldn  t  she  have  you?"  I  asked,  bluntly. 
^  She  said  she  would-and  changed  her  mind." 
^  So  that  you  were  actually  engaged?" 
For  about  a  month." 

do"°u?"'''^    ^°"  '^°"''  "''"^  "y  '''^''^  """"■■on^ 

.'.'S°'  '*"  y°"  ''°"'*  """J  if  I  don't  answer." 

nhJ^T  T\*''f  P~^"*°  ^'"  8o  on.    Did  she  teU  why 
she— why  she  broke  it  off?"  ^ 

"Not— not  exactly." 

"And  haven't  you  found  out?" 
thZ'5  ?"*"f ''^'.^he's  her  great  friend,  told  me  some- 
?„r  it  I     l^'  ""^  *''*"  ^"^  ^'^o  J^i"''^  of  women. 

fr^K         *°  *"  ''°~"''  ^"^  °*'"«  '^"'"'t  «tisfied  u^ 
less  they  were  conquered." 

"And  you  took  the  wrong  method  r 
III 


THE   CITY  OF  COMRADES 


if  h 
i 


r\ 


1 1 
1 1 


"So  it  seems." 

"Well,  why  don't  you  turn  round  now  znd  take  the 
right  one?" 

His  dreamy,  melancholy  eyes  slid  toward  me. 

"Do  you  see  me  doing  that?  I'm  the  kind  of  bloke 
that  would  like  a  woman  to  conquer  him.  If  it  comes 
to  that,  there  are  two  kinds  of  men." 

He  had  told  me  so  much  that  I  felt  it  tight  to  give 
him  a  warning. 

"Since  you  say  she's  a  friend  of  Elsie  Coningsby's,  I 
mayn't  be  able  to  help  finding  out  who  she  is." 

"Oh,  I  shouldn't  mind  that — ^not  with  you.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  I  should  like  to  introduce  you  to  her 
one  of  these  days." 

I  broke  in  more  hastily  than  I  intended,  "No,  no; 
don't  do  that — for  God's  sake!" 

He  swung  round  in  amazement.  "Why — ^why,  what's 
the  matter?" 

I  tried  to  recover  myself.  "Oh,  nothingi  Only,  you 
must  see  for  yourself  that — ^that  after  what  I've  been 
through  I'm  not — not  a  lady's  man." 

"Oh,  get  out!"  was  his  only  observation. 

We  lapsed  into  one  of  our  long  silences,  which  was 
broken  when  we  turned  back  toward  town. 

"Look  here,  Frank,"  he  said,  suddenly,  "you  can't 
go  on  living  down  there  in  Vandiver  Street.  Besides,  the 
club  will  be  needing  your  bed  for  some  one  else." 

"I  know,"  I  said.  "I've  been  thinking  about  it.  I 
simply  don't  want  to  move.'' 

"You'll  have  to,  though." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so." 

He  went  on  to  suggest  a  small  apartment  in  the  bachelor 
house  he  was  living  in  himself.  Now  was  the  time  to 
113 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

rent,  before  men  began  coming  back  to  town.  He  knew 
of  a  little  suite  of  three  rooms  and  a  bath  which  ought 
to  be  within  my  means.  As  we  passed  the  house  we 
stopped  and  looked  at  it.  I  liked  it  and  promised  to 
turn  the  matter  over  in  my  mind. 

Next  day  I  broached  it  to  Lovey.      The  effea  was 
what  I  expected.    He  grasped  me  by  the  arm,  looking 
up  at  me  with  eyes  the  more  eloquent  from  the  fact  that 
they  were  dead. 
"Y'ain't  goin'  to  leave  me,  Slim?" 
"It  wouldn't  be  leaving  you,  Lovey." 
"Y'ain't  goin'  to  live  in  another  'ouse,  where  I  sha'n't 
be  seein'  ye  every  day?" 
"You  could  get  a  room  near." 

"'Twouldn't  be  the  same  thing— not  noway,  it  wouldn't 
be.    Oh,  Sliml" 

With  a  gesture  really  dramatic  he  smote  his  chest  with 
his  two  clenched  fists,  and  drew  a  long,  grating  sigh. 

We  were  sitting  on  our  beds,  which  were  side  by  side 
in  one  of  the  dormitories.  It  was  the  nearest  thing  to 
privacy  the  club-house  ever  allowed  us. 

"This  '11  be  the  hend  of  me;  and  it  'U  be  the  hend  of 
you.  Slim,  if  I  ain't  there  to  watch  over  you.  You'll 
never  keep  straight  without  me,  sonny."  He  was  struck 
with  a  new  idea,  and,  indeed,  I  had  thought  of  it  my- 
self. "Didn't  ye  say,"  he  went  on,  as  he  leaned  forward 
and  tapped  my  knee,  "that  in  them  rooms  there  was  one 
little  dark  room?" 
"Very  little  and  very  dark." 

"But  it  wouldn't  be  too  little  or  too  dark  for  me.  Slim, 

not  if  I  could  be  your  valet,  like.    I  could  do  everythink 

for  you,  just  like  a  gentleman.     My  fatl .  r  was  a  valet, 

and  he  lamed  me  before  he  couldn't  lam  me  nothink 

"3 


!,<(=' 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

else.  I  could  keep  your  clothes  so  as  you'd  never  need 
new  ones,  and  1  could  mend  and  dam  and  cook  your 
breakfasts— I'm  a  swell  cook— I  can  bile  tea  and  coffe* 
and  heggs— many's  the  time  I've  done  it—" 

"All  right,  Lovey,"  I  interrupted.    "It's  a  baisain. 
We're  buddies." 

"No,  Slim;  we  won't  be  buddies  no  mote.    We'll  call 
that  off.    We'll  just  be  master  and  man.    I'll  know  my 
place  and  I'll  keep  it.    I  sha'n't  call  you  Slim,  nor  sonny—" 
"Oh  yes,  you  must." 
He  shook  his  head. 

"No;  not  after  we've  moved  from  the  club.  I'll  call 
you  Mr.  Melbury  and  say  sir  to  you;  and  you  must  call 
me  Lovey,  just  as  if  it  was  my  real  name."  He  added, 
unexpectedly  to  me:  "I  suppose  yt  know  it  ain't  my 
real  name?" 
"Oh,  what  does  it  matter?" 

"It  only  matters  like  this:  I  ain't— I  ain't—"  He 
gft  up  in  some  agitation  and  went  to  one  of  the  windows. 
After  looking  out  for  a  second  or  two  he  turned  half  round 
toward  me.  "Ye  ain't  thinking  me  any  better  than  I 
am,  Slim,  are  you?" 

"I'm  not  thinking  whether  you're  better  or  worse, 
Lovey.    I  just  like  you." 

"And  I've  took  an  awful  fancy  to  you,  Slim.     Seems 
as  if  you  was  my  whole  family.     But— but  you're  not, 
sonny.    I've— I've  got  a  family.    They're  dead  to  me 
and  I'm  dead  to  them;  but  they're  my  family.    Did  ve 
know  that,  Slimr 
"I  didn't  know  it,  and  you  needn't  tell  me." 
"But  if  I  was  awful  bad,  sonny?    If  I  was  wuss  than 
anythink  that  'd  ever  come  into  your  'ead?" 
"We  won't  talk  about  that.     Perhaps  there  are  things 
"4 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

*"J  l^'*'  *'"  y°"  "•'•*'''  ^°"'*'  ••'<"'  that  there's  not 
much  difference  between  us." 

"I  'ope  there  is,  Slim.  And  she  was  terr'ble  aggra- 
Tatin  ;  a  drinkin'  woman,  besides.  I  didn't  drink  then 
—  ardly  not  at  all.  It  was  after  I  was  acquitted  I  begun 
that.  And  my  two  gells— well,  bein'  acquitted  didn't 
make  no  difference  to  them;  they'd  seen.  Only,  they 
didn  t  swear  that  way  in  their  hevidence.  They  swore 
she  fell  down  the  stairs  she  was  found  at  the  bottom  of, 
her  neck  broken;  and,  bein'  a  drinkin'  woman,  the  jury 
thought—  But  the  two  gells  knew.  And  when  I  was 
let  off  they  didn't  'ave  no  more  to  do  with  me— so  I  come 
over  ere — " 

I  rose  and  went  to  him,  laying  my  hand  on  his  shoulder. 
Dont,  Lovey.    That's  enough.     I  don't  care  who 
you  are  or  what  you've  done,  we'll  stick  it  out  together 
The  only  thing  is  that  we'll  have  to  give  up  the  booze." 
"For  good  and  all.  Slim r 
"Yes;  for  good  and  all." 
"It  'II  be  awful  'ard." 

"Yes,  it  will  be;   but  the  worst  of  that  is  over." 
He  seized  one  of  my  hands  in  both  of  his. 
"Slim,  if  it's  got  to  be  a  ch'ice  between  you  and  Hquof 
--well,  I'm  danged  if— if  I  won't"- he  made  a  great  reso- 
lution—"give  up  the  liquor— and  so  'elp  me!" 

So  when  I  moved  Lovey  moved  with  me.  Washing 
windows  having  become  a  lucrative  profession,  he  in- 
sisted on  taking  no  wages  from  me  and  on  paying  for  his 
own  food.  In  the  matter  of  names  we  agreed  on  a  com- 
promise. "Before  company,"  as  he  expressed  it,  I  was 
Mr.  Melbury  and  sir;  when  we  were  alone  together  we 
reverted  to  the  habits  of  Greeley's  Slip  and  the  Down 
and  Out,  and  I  became  Slim  and  sonny, 
"S 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 


h 


I  wai  truly  torry  to  leave  the  club,  for  its  simple, 
brotherly  wayi,  wholesome  and  masculine,  if  never  the 
most  refined,  had  become  curiously  a  part  of  me.  I  had 
liked  the  fellowship  with  rough  men  who  were  perhaps 
all  the  more  human  for  being  rough.  For  the  first  time 
in  my  life  I  had  known  something  of  genuine  fraternity. 
I  do  not  affirm  that  we  lived  together  without  disagree- 
ments or  misunderstandings  or  that  there  were  no  minutes 
electric  with  the  tension  that  makes  for  an  all-round  fight. 
But  there  was  always  some  "wise  guy,"  as  we  called  him, 
to  make  peace  among  us;  and  on  the  whole  we  lived  to- 
gether with  a  mutual  courtesy  that  proved  to  me  once 
for  all  that  it  is  nothing  external  which  makes  a  gentle- 
man. Finer  gentlemen  in  the  essentials  of  the  word  I 
never  met  than  some  of  those  who  were  just  struggling 
up  from  the  seemingly  bottomless  pit. 

Thus  the  summer  of  1913  became  for  me  a  very  happy 
one.  There  were  reserves  to  that  happiness,  and  there 
were  fears;  but  the  optimism  most  of  us  bring  to  the 
day's  work  enabled  me  to  face  them.  Of  Regina  Barry 
I  heard  much  from  my  friend  Cantyre,  and  I  made  what 
I  heard  suffice  me.  He  was  always  willing  to  talk  of  this 
girl,  whom  he  never  named;  and  little  by  little  I  formed 
an  image  in  my  heart,  which  would  never  be  anywhere 
but  in  my  heart  as  long  as  I  could  help  it.  As  long  as 
I  could  help  it  I  should  not  see  her,  nor  should  she  see  me. 
As  to  that  I  was  now  quite  positive.  Nothing  could  be 
gained  by  my  seeing  her,  while  by  her  seeing  me  every- 
thing might  be  lost. 

If  everything  was  lost  in  one  way  I  was  sure  it  would 

be  lost  in  another.     Because  I  have  said  little  or  nothing 

of  the  fight  I  was  making  you  must  not  suppose  that  I 

was  free  from  the  necessity  of  making  it.    I  was  making 

116 


THE   CITY  OF  COMRADES 

t^U  !l*?  ""'  ""*"[••  /"""  '^'*  ^^  'hen.  if  I 
hadn  t  had  Lovey  to  think  of,  I  .hould  have  yielded  to 
that  suggestion  which  had  come  to  me  as  neatly  as  it 
had  come  to  him  of  having  a  little  fall.  Falls  were  far 
from  unknown  among  us.  They  were  accepted  a*  an 
unhappy  matter  of  course.  Some  of  our  steadiest  mem- 
bers had  made  full  use  of  the  three  time,  the  law  of 
the  club  allowed  them  before  finally  settling  down.  I 
beheved  that  I  could  exercise  this  privileg^and  come 
back.  But  not  so  with  Loveyf  Once  he  failed  in  this 
attempt,  I  knew  he  would  be  gone.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
he  would  have  failed  at  any  time  after  the  first  week  if 
Whadn  t  been  on  my  account;  so  I  couldn't  fail  on  his. 
When  I  would  have  done  it  eagerly,  wildly,  I  was  with- 
held by  the  old-fashioned  motto  of  nobUsse  oblige. 

And  yet  m  proportion  as  I  grew  stronger  I  realized 
more  clearly  that  my  future  was,  as  it  were,  balanced  on 
the  point  of  a  pin  Once  I  had  met  Regina  Barry,  and  her 
eyes  had  sa^d,  "You  are  the  man  who  stole  my  gold- 
mesh  purse,  I  knew  it  would  be  all  up  with  me.  She 
wo-ildn  t  have  to  say  a  worH.  Her  look  would  bring  the 
accusation.  Then  if  I  was  weak  I  should  go  ofl^  and  get 
d:unk;  I  should  dnnk  till  I  drank  myself  to  death  If 
1  was  strong  I  should  shoot  myself.  There  was  just  one 
thing  of  which  I  was  sure— I  should  never  face  that  silent 
charge  a  second  time. 

But  as  the  weeks  went  by  and  nothing  happened  I 
began  to  be  confident  tha.  nothing  would.  We  reached 
the  end  of  September  and  I  never  heard  Regina  Barry's 
name.  Even  Cantyre  hadn't  told  me  that,  and  didn't 
suppose  that  I  knew  it.  I  calculated  the  chances  against 
our  ever  meeting.  I  built  something,  too,  on  the  possi- 
5  wouldn  t  knc 


117 


;  again. 


THE   CITY   OF   COMRADES 


') 


In  thif  I  got  encouragement  from  the  fact  that  one 
day  in  Fifth  Avenue  I  met  my  uncle  Van  Elttine.  He 
didn't  know  me.  He  wouldn't  have  cut  me  for  anything 
in  the  world;  he  wat  too  good-natured  and  kind;  but 
he  let  his  wandering  gaze  rest  on  me  as  on  any  passing 
stranger,  and  went  on  his  way.  I  argued  then  that  time, 
vicissitude,  a  hard  life,  and  a  mustache  had  worked  an 
effective  disguise.  If  my  own  uncle,  who  had  known  me 
all  my  life,  could  go  by  like  that,  how  much  more  one  to 
whom  I  could  be  nothing  but  a  sinister  shadow  seen  for 
three  or  four  minutes  in  a  rose^olored  gloom. 

So  I  reasoned  and  became  a  little  comforted.  And 
then  one  day  my  arguments  were  put  to  the  test. 

It  was  quite  at  the  end  of  September.  The  memorial 
was  now  so  nearly  completed  that  Coningsby,  who  had 
returned  to  town,  left  it  almost  entirely  to  my  charge. 
A  new  bit  of  work  at  Atlantic  City  having  come  his  way, 
he  was  closely  absorbed  in  it.  Mrs.  Grace  had  motored 
up  once  or  twice  to  consult  me  as  to  papers,  rugs,  and 
other  details  of  interior  decoration.  I  found  her  a  grave, 
beautiful  woman  who  gave  the  impression  of  nourishing 
something  that  lasts  longer  than  grief— a  deep  regret. 
Our  intercourse  was  friendly  but  impersonal. 

Once  she  was  accompanied  by  a  young  lady  whose 
voice  I  recognized  as  they  approached  the  room  in  which 
I  was  at  work.  It  was  a  clear,  bell-like,  staccato  voice, 
whose  tones  would  have  made  my  heart  stop  still  had  I 
heard  it  in  heaven.  Mrs.  Grace  entered  the  room,  fol- 
lowed by  a  girl  as  Anglo-Saxon  in  type  as  her  brother, 
only  with  a  decision  and  precision  in  the  manner  which 
he  had  not. 

In  my  confusion  I  was  uncertain  as  to  whether  or  not 
there  was  an  introduction,  but  I  remember  her  saying: 
ii» 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

"Oh,  Mr.  Melbuiy,  Rdph  i.  »  indebted  to  you  for  all 

Trk^rrrei""  "^  •"•  "  «"  -'"^  '"»-  ^■- 
...l^n!""'  !'""'"'  m«  «niP«rion.lly,  ..  her  brother*. 

none  of  the  mterett  good  people  generally  di.play  in  a 
brand  that  ha.  been  plucked  from  the  burning. 

I.  It  poLible  .he  doe.n't  know  it?"  I  a.ked  Cantyrc 
the  next  time  I  law  him.  ^ 

"Of  course  she  doe.n't.  That  would  be  the  Ian 
thmg  Conrngsby  would  tell  her.  We  never  .peak  of 
thew  thing,  outside  the  club.  If  a  fellow  like,  to  do  it 
himself— well,  that',  hi.  own  affair." 

But  early  in  October  I  came  face  to  face  with  it  all. 
1  was  standing  at  one  of  the  upper  windows,  looking 

t„T  T  ^^'fr^  ^.'""'  "•>•"  '  '»-  '  motor  drive  uj 
to  the  door.  I  knew  it  was  Mrs.  Grace's  motor,  having 
^n  It  a  number  of  times  already.  When  the  footman 
held  open  the  door  Mrs.  Grace  herself  stepped  out,  to 
^  followed  by  Miss  Coningsby,  who  in  turn  was  followed 

I  strolled  away  from  the  window  into  the  interior  of 
the  house.  I  was  not  so  much  calm  as  numb.  There  were 
details  about  which  I  had  to  speak  to  Mrs.  Grace,  but 
they  all  went  out  of  my  mind.  They  went  out  of  mv 
nund  as  matters  with  which  I  had  no  more  concern.  A 
dying  man  might  feel  that  way  about  the  earthly  things 
he  IS  leaving  behind.  I  was,  in  fact,  not  so  much  like 
a  dying  man  as  like  a  man  who  in  the  full  flush  of  vigor 
IS  told  that  he  must  in  a  few  minutes  face  the  firing-squad. 

imened  to  the  three  voices  as  they  floated  up,  first  from 
119 


'\ 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 
die  \amtr  floor,  then  from  the  Kairway,  then  from  th* 


floor  on  which  I  y 


1  thifi 


I  nerveleunett. 


m 


I  waiting  I 

They  drifted  nearer— Mrs.  Grace'i  gentle  tctci,  Eliie 
Cbnin(«by't  filvery  tinkle,  and  then  the  rich  meaio, 
which  by  aiiociatiMi  of  idea*  teemed  to  ihed  round  me  a 
nwe-colored  light. 

Mrs.  Grace  and  MiM  Coningsby  came  in  together,  the 
one  in  black,  the  other  in  white.  Both  bade  me  a  friendly, 
impenonal  good  morning,  while  Mn.  Grace  proceeded 
at  once  to  the  quettion  of  rugi.  Didn't  I  think  that  good 
aerviceable  American  rugi,  with  lome  of  those  nice  Orien- 
tal drugget!  people  used  in  lummer  cottagei,  would  be 
better  than  anything  more  fragile  and  expeniive? 

I  made  such  answers  at  I  could,  keeping  my  eyes  on 
the  door.  Presently  she  appeared  on  the  threshold,  look- 
ing about  with  interest  and  curiosity  in  her  great,  dark 
eyes.  Of  the  minute  I  retain  no  more  than  a  vision  in 
rough  green  English  tweed,  with  a  goldish-greenish  motor- 
ing-veil round  the  head  like  a  nimbus.  She  impressed 
me  as  at  once  more  delicate  and  more  strong  than  1  re- 
membered hei^— eager,  alert,  independent. 

"This  is  to  be  the  men's  smoking-room,"  Miss  Ojn- 
in,^by  explained. 

"Wouldn't  you  know  it?"  Miss  Barry  said,  lightly. 
"One  of  the  nicest  rooms  in  the  house — I  thi»'''.  the  very 
nicest.  It's  wonderful  how  well  men  do  themselves, 
isn't  it?" 

"Oh,  but  in  this  case  it's  Hilda." 

"It's  your  brother  first  of  all.  You'll  see.  It  will  be 
the  snuggest  comer  of  the  whole  place,  and  they  won't 
let  a  woman  look  into  it." 

She  glanced  at  me— but  casually.  She  glanced  again 
—but  casually  again.  As  no  one  introduced  me,  a  greet- 
110 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 
Grace  fi„„hed  her  quettion.  .bout  the  rugt  and  they 

The  reply  gave  my  name. 
"Ohl" 

«.d?!i'"'"  ""'I',"'  *'''■''  •"  •""•">*'•    ■">"'•  how  he 
■nd  t«ther  were  able  to  get  awav." 

"Ohl"  ' 

"Now  we're  going  on  to  the  day  nursery—" 
But  Regina  Barry  .aid:    "Wait  a  minutel    No,    go 
««.     Ill  overtake  you.    I'm-I'm   perfealy  .ure  that 
that,  the  very  man  who-"    She  added,  a.  if7oS 

1^  T^m'h'm  "?;:\*'°"=  "''""  «°'"8  ''-k  to  .peak  tf 
hut..    Tell  Hilda  I'll  be  with  her  in  an  instant." 

on  tw„n7,T  '  "P""'"*  *°  "y^^'f  the  formula  agreH 
on  two  or  three  month,  before,  that  I  would  .ee  her  fir«^ 
and  shoot  my.elf  afterward. 


CHAPTER  IX 


h 


"  OAVENT  we  met  before?" 

n      Regina   Barry  said  this  as  she  came  into  the 
room  with  her  rapid,  easy  movement  and  took  two  or' 
three  paces  toward  me,  stopping  as  abruptly  as  she  en- 
tered. 

I  hung  my  head,  crimsoning  slowly. 

"Yes." 

"I  thought  so,  though  I  didn't  recognize  you  at  first. 
I  knew  I  had  some  association  with  you,  but  it  was  so 
vague — " 

"Of  course." 

"Then  I  had  no  idea  you  were  an  architect." 

"How  could  you?" 

"You  see,  meeting  you  for  so  short  a  time — " 

"And  practically  in  the  dark — " 

"I  don't  remember  that.  But  I  had  no  chance  to  ask 
anything  about  you.    I  only  hoped  you'd  come  back." 

"Oh,  I  couldn't  have  done  that." 

"Why  not?" 

"I  should  think  you'd  understand." 

"I  don't — considering  that  I  asked  you  particularly." 

"I  know  you  asked  me  particularly,  but  anything  in 
life — or  death — ^would  have  been  easier  than  to  obey 
you." 

"What  did  I  do  to  frighten  you  so?" 

"Nothing  but  show  me  toe  much  mercy." 

122 


!!i: 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

"Oh,  I  didn't  think  anythin  .  of  tnat." 

"SS"  •    °^  f'  '""'^''  "f  '^'  forvvenes.?" 
Of  the  cnme,  of  course." 

I  stepped  back  from  her  in  amaz«.,«„, 

-      ..X°"  ''"'n  t  think  anything  of—" 

«w"y    /'^'f"V°"«  the  same  myself." 
^  rouf    You've  often  done—" 

that  f  ;.e"twiV'''  f''""''"'-    ^"^  P'*-«  •'-'t  -PPose 
she  gave  wl^in  „,     ■    ''\°"'y  ^'«"  "'  embarrassment 

heHtftLra^d?uSttr;t^Lrs:o^'  ?^i 

great  eyes,  of  which  the  hght  made  one  dou    fd  as  Jo 
the  color,  glowed  feverishly,  and  the  long  scarlet  U^ 

jou  want  me  to  be  absolutely  frank?" 

we  kl;':'up"?""'  '""'""^'  '''''"'*  -'    Why  shouldn't 

mZgagimetr^'  ^"  *""  ^^'^^^  '''  ''-^en  off 

cited      A„-?         I'^'"  =•  Iittle-well,  perhaps  a  little  ex- 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 


'\ 


did — it's  only  been  because  it  was  part  of  the  hours  right 
after — "  There  was  another  of  those  smiles  that  were 
amusingly  apologetic  as  well  as  amusingly  provocative. 
"You're — you're  not  married,  are  you?" 

"No." 

"Nor  engaged?" 

"No." 

"Everbeenr 

"No." 

"Then  you  can't  imagine  what  it  is  to  have  been  en- 
gaged and  nearly  married — and  then  to  find  yourself  free 
again.  Everything  associated  with  the  minute  comes  to 
be  imprinted  on  your  memory.  That's  why  I've  thought 
of  it,  though  I  didn't  for  the  minute  recognize  you  as  the 
man." 

"And  now  that  you  have  recognized  me — " 

"I  hope  you'll  do  as  I  asked  you  before,  and  come  and 
see  us  again."  She  added,  as  she  was  about  to  turn 
away,  "How's  Annette?" 

I  had  been  puzzled  hitherto;  I  was  now  bewildered. 

"You  mean  Annette  Van  Elstine?  Did  you  know  she 
was  my  cousin?" 

"Of  course!    Didn't  she  bring  you?" 

"Bring  me?"  I  stammered.    "Bring  me — ^where?" 

"Why,  to  our  house  1" 

"When?" 

"The  time  we're  talking  about — ^when  you  upset  Mrs. 
Sillinger's  coffee  and  broke  the  cup." 

It  is  difiScult  to  say  whether  I  was  relieved  or  not.  I 
could  only  falter,  "I — I  don't  believe  I'm  the  man." 

She  came  back  two  or  three  steps  toward  me. 

"Why,  of  course  you're  the  man!  Isn't  your  name 
Melburyr 

134 


THE   CITY  OF  COMRADES 

What's  your  name?" 
"Frank." 

~w  ,h.,  A«„„  did  ^  htajS"    ii'  ""f"'^' 

;p,-^>.  did  ,.„  ^  ...litn  .Si'^r;* 

I' Don't  you  know?" 
'■I  haven't  the  remotest  idea." 
Look  at  me  again  " 

is^hat  I  see  yo.  btott.   111'^  ^iX^J'  Z 

^^yta;  It"'  "'''  '^"'"^  ''-^-   "-"--^t  ,S 

'He's  married  now  " 

iaum^sint^to^rrL^.^^^  — 

to  tVmT'  '"'"  '"'""'  '"^  ="«="■"  -''-'«<•  half  round 

diiTou  m^r  ^  '"°"  """  '  '"^'"*'  •>«  -hat  on  earth 
I  drew  myself  up  for  real  inspection. 

*-ant  you  thmk?" 
She  shook  her  head. 


'\ 


THE   CITY   OF   COMRADES 

"I  must  say  you  seemed  inordinately  penitent  over  a 
broken  cup,  even  if  Mrs.  Sillinger  was  so  cross.  She 
said  you  spilled  the  coffee  all  over  her  dress;  but  you 
didn't." 

"You  mean  Jack." 

"Oh  yes!  What  a  bother!  I  shall  always  get  you 
mixed  up  in  the  future." 

"I  hope  not — for  his  sake." 

"Now  don't  tease  me.    Tell  me  where  we  met." 

"If  1  do—" 

She  brightened,  the  smile  of  the  scarlet  lips  growing 
vividly  brilliant. 

"I  know.     It  was  at  the  Millings',  at  larrytown." 

"I'm  afraid  not." 

"Then  it  was  at  the  Wynfords',  at  Old  Westbury? 
They  always  have  so  many  people  there — " 

"Think  again." 

"What's  the  good  of  thinking  when,  if  I  could  remem- 
ber you,  I  should  do  it  right  away?" 

"It  seems  extraordinary  to  me  that  you  can  have 
forgotten." 

"You  seem  very  sure  of  the  impression  you  made  on 

me." 

"I  am." 

"And  I've  forgotten  all  about  itl" 

"You  haven't  forgotten  the  impression;  you've  only 
forgotten  me." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Melbury,  tell  me!  Please!  I've  got  to  run 
off  and  overtake  Mrs.  Grace;  sxtd  I  can't  do  it  unless  1 
know." 

You  will  admit  that  my  duty  at  this  juncture  requii«d 
some  considering.  In  the  end  I  said:  "I  sha'n't  tell  you 
to-day.  I  may  do  it  later.  In  any  case,  I've  given  you 
126 


'THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 
know  ,],„  wlien  y„„'„  re,„,„|,„^  ,        ''"'S 

crept  mto  a  house  at  midnieht     Th,.  tr,J.f  •      . 

TJiat  night  I  put  the  question  up  to  Lovey 


!t, 


i5' 


^ 


l::,i 


If';*! 

■i 

flJ 


THE   CITY   OF   COMRADES 
"Lovey,  do  I  look  the  same  as  I  did  four  or  five  tnontlM 

"You  looks  just  as  good  to  me,  sonny." 

"Yes,  but  suppose  you  hadn't  seen  me  in  the  mean 
while,  and  had  come  on  me  all  of  a  sudden,  would  you 
know  right  off  that  it  was  me?" 

"Slim,  if  I  was  blind  and  deaf  and  dumb,  and  couldn't 
see  nothink  nor  'ear  nothink  nor  feel  nothink,  I'd  know 
it  was  you  if  you  come  'arf  a  mile  from  where  I  was." 

Since  this  intuitiveness  was  of  no  help  to  me,  I  worked 
round  to  the  subject  when,  later  in  the  evening,  I  had  gone 
in  to  smoke  a  good-night  pipe  with  Cantyre. 

lie  had  a  neat  little  comer  suite  which  gave  one  a 
cheery  view  of  the  traffic  in  Madison  Avenue  north  and 
south  by  a  mere  shifting  of  the  eyes.     I  sat  in  the  pro- 
jectirg  semicircle  that  commanded  this   because,  after 
my  own  outlook  into  an  airshaft,  I  enjoyed  the  twinkling 
of  the  lights.     To  me  the  real  Ville  Lumiere  is  New  York. 
It  scatters  lights  with  the  prodigal  richness  with  which 
the  heaven  scatters  stars.    It  strings  them  in  long  lines; 
it  banks  them  in  towering  facades;  it  flings  them  in  hand- 
fuls  up  into  the  darkness;   it  writes  them  on  the  sky. 
Twilight  offers  you  a  special  beauty  because,  wherever 
you  are  in  the  city,  it  brings  out  for  you  in  one  window 
or  another  that  first  wan,  primrose-colored  beacon— in 
some  ways  more  beautiful  than  the  evening  star.     Be- 
hind the  star  you  don't  know  what  there  is,  while  be- 
hind the  light  there  is  a  palpitating  history.    Then  as 
you  look  down  from  some  high  perch  other  histories  light 
their  lamps,  till  within  half  an  hour  the  whole  town  is 
ablaze  with  them— a  light  for  every  life-tale— as  in  pious 
places  there  is  one  for  every  shrine. 
Those  who  wet«  looking  at  ours  saw  nothing  but  a 
128 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

Ba.^e  bronzetloXd  ^^^''"^^^P""^'^  8™tesques  and 

haX„a„s:°?\rd"7!r^^^""^ 

unexpected?;  I  knew  ;h  t  alTthi^  /"T'  ""  °"  '"^ 
dazzle  any  o'n^I  cojiZ^l^iZ'^.':-^:^  fo.V° 
own  enjoyment.  "*  '°^  "'» 

129 


f! 


1 


i  -f 


THE   CITY   OF   COMRADES 

I  sat,  however,  with  my  back  to  it  all,  astride  of  a 
•mall  chair,  my  pipe  in  my  mouth,  looking  down  on  the 
lights  and  traffic. 

Breaking  a  long  silence,  I  said,  as  casually  as  I  could 
do  it:  "I  met  Sterling  Barry's  daughter  the  other  day- 
Miss  Regina  Barry,  her  name  is,  isn't  it?" 

Vague,  restless  movements  preceded  the  laconic  re- 
sponse, "Where?" 

"She  came  to  the  memorial  with  Mrs.  Grace." 

Hearing  him  strike  a  match,  I  knew  he  was  making 
an  effort  at  sang-froid  by  lighting  a  cigarette. 

"Did  you — did  you — think  hei^pretty?" 

"Pretty  wouldn't  be  the  word." 

"Beautiful?" 

"Nor  beautiful." 

"What  then?" 

"No  word  that  I  know  would  be  adequate.  You  might 
•ay  fascinating  if  it  hadnt  been  vulgarized;  and  chic 
would  be  worse." 

"She's  tremendously  animated — and  vivid." 

"She  has  the  most  living  eyes  and  mouth  I've  ever 
seen  in  a  human  being.  I've  never  seen  a  face  so  aglow 
with  mind,  emotion,  and  color.  She's  all  flame,  but  a 
flame  like  that  of  the  burning  bush,  afire  from  a  force 
within." 

He  spoke  bitterly.  "And  people  talk  about  that  being 
conquered!" 

To  lead  him  further  I  said,  "Has  any  one  talked 
of  it?" 

"Didn't  you  know?" 

"How  should  I  know?    You— you've  never  told  me." 

"Well,  I'm— I'm  telling  you  now." 

My  sympathy  was  quite  genuine. 
130 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 
"Tl  anks,  old  boy.     I  can  »rr     T 
mu.t  have  gone  with  you  "  "  **•  '""'  ''"''  «' 

te|°Vy:i'£-tSL>''*'-<'»^-cei„ 

thatloV-UTnSoroZ-r^^  ""  •>«-'  -» 

to  her  world  "any"  mo«;    a^d  I'd  "T"     '  '°"'*  ''^'°"« 
back  into  it."  '    "  ^  *•  "'••«  not  try  to  get 

yol'^o 'rhe°""'    ^  '  •"'«"  "^  '-  ^'-  «oing  to  take 

^^tt^  ,tt  rxS:  r'^^''.  -» v°  --" 

•eenyou?"  «"«tnatf    The  first  time  she'd  ever 

teiitXt^S'""---"-^- X^^^^^^^^^^^ 
^Ho2iSai.:;ir;teLti:n„^^^^^    ^^ 

women  in  New  York.  I'm  told  "he  is  ^'  °'*''"  ^'"='«'« 
^^^One  of  the  very  smartest.    She  ..uld  do  anything  for 

-med^o  17,  hZz::^:\  irr'^  "='"^-"  ^^ 

so  I  went  on  in  another  ve^     .<?        ""/  "^  °P^"'«8. 
in  the  street  one  dav  no.T  ""  Annette's  father 

out  recognizi^g'^T'  Havt'K:'  ='!;'' '"'  ''^"^  ''y  -"h" 
the  spring?"  ""''*  ^  ='«'»8ed  very  much-since 

an^cSL'rre^-yfn"^^^^^^^  "« ^-•"-»y 

take  you  to  be  the  sam^  m^'n^^n^t^^*  ''''  ''°"'''"'* 
Uid  they  mean  morally-^r  physicallyr 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

"Oh.  they  meant  in  looki.  They  said  they'd  never 
■een-any  one  in  whom  good  dothei  and  a  itraight  life 
had  lo  thoroughly  created  a  new  man."  ^^ 

"So  that  you  think  my  uncle  might  reatonably— 

"Pas*  you  without  recognition?  Oh,  Lord,  yeil  Be- 
lidet,  your  mustache  changes  you  a  lot.  I'd  ihave  that 
off  again  if  I  were  you;  and  you  want  to  get  back  to  your 
oldtelf."  ,   ^        ^ 

To  end  the  subject  I  said  merely:  "I'm  glad  to  hear 
that  I  don't  look  as  I  did;  because— because  I  shouldn't 
like  to  think  that  the  good  old  fellow  had  cut  me." 


CHAPTER  X 

Indeed  'hi  "T  *u"  *'"""  "  '«*'  '»'*  """«  gue.,! 
indeed,  she  might  have  gues.ed  already.  I  had  no 
means  of  knowng.    During  the  four  or  L  day.  «nc^ 

But  I  was  not  left  long  in  doubt. 
TTie  >y.Il.am  Grace  Memorial  was  now  practically  ,-adv 
forfum.sh.ng.    Mrs.  Grace  was  about  to  r^v    barklo 

iZ^^i^rV     "tT^'  *'■"  "^''-    Coningsby  and 
1  were  going  through  the  rooms  one  day  with  an  ev» 

•"wrthetr"''''  ''^^  '^^  overlookedUen  he.=^d^ 

I  replied  that  as  far  as  any  further  need  of  my  service, 
was  concerned  I  might  knock  off  work  ther^Tnd T.^ 
thanLng  h.m  for  all  his  help  through  the  summer 
in  oTlt      w       1  r*"'  °"'  "^  '^°"^^  '"^^  yo"  to  come 
you  and  I  understand  each  other:    we  sneat  tl,.  / 
-guage  both  professionally  .ni  'so^llir^terZ 

sav  t^J  •  u^''  "°*  ^"""^  "P  *°  °"'  ««'e  Place- 

talk  ,t  over?    My  wife  told  me  to  ask  you." 
133 


"\ 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

Knowing  th»t  Coningiby  had  been  iware  of  the  Kate 
«f  my  wardrobe  a  few  monthi  earlier,  I  bluihed  to  the 
rooti  of  my  hair  a«  I  put  the  quettion:  What  ihall  1 
wear?  Tailf— or  a  dinner  jacket  and  black  tie> 
"Oh,  a  dinner  jacket.  There'll  be  juit  ourclvei. 
But  when  I  went  I  found  not  only  my  host  and  hoitew, 
but  Regina  Barry  to  make  the  party  iquare. 

The  Coningsbys  lived  on  the  top  floor  of  an  apartment- 
house  on  the  summit  of  the  ridge  between  the  west  side 
of  the  Park  and  the  Hudson.     Below  them  lay  a  pict- 
uresque tumble  of  roofs  running  down  to  the  nver,  be- 
yond  which  the  abrupt  New  Jersey  heights  drew  a  long 
straight  line  against  the  horizon.    Sunset  and  moonset 
were  the  special  beauties  of  the  site,  with  the  swift  and 
ceaseless  current  to  add  life  and  mystery  to  the  outlook. 
The  apartment   differed  from  Cantyre's  m  that  its 
simplicity  would  have  been  bare  had  it  not  produced  an 
impression  of  containing  just  enough.    The  walls  of  the 
drawing-room  were  of  a  pale-gold  ocher  against  which 
every  spot  of  color  told  for  its  full  value.    On  this  back- 
ground the  green  of  chairs,  the  rose  of  lamp-shades,  the 
mahogany  of  tables,  and  the  satinwood  of  cabinets  pleased 
and  rested  the  eye.    There  were  no  pictures  m  the  room 
but  a  portrait  of  Mrs.  Coningsby,  which  one  of  the  great 
artists  of  the  day  had  painted  for  her  as  a  gift.     In  its 
richness  of  copper-colored  hair  and  diaphanous  jade-green 
draperies  the  room  got  all  the  decoration  it  required. 

I  had  heard  Regina  Barry's  voice  on  entering,  and  knew 
that  I  was  up  against  my  fate.  That  is  to  say,  the  re- 
volver lay  ready  in  my  desk.  Knowing  that  such  a  meet- 
ing  as  this  must  occur  some  time,  I  was  in  earnest  as  to 
using  the  weapon  on  the  day  when  her  eyes  accused  me. 
As  I  took  off  my  overcoat  and  hat  and  laid  them  on  a 
134 


1   di^ 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

but  I  wondor,/ 1.  .     .  ""''  '"'""«d  Coningsby; 

Dut  I  wondered  how  even  he  had  caueht  this  At,I,»» 
and  .mpr..o„ed  her  in  ,  flat  on  the  west  fde  of  New  Yo"k 

a  comer  of  the  fireplace  armchair  by 

y  dossing  in  a  bright  ros^lJeT  Wh      T  11^"' 

o«":jartr;atro!d'  -r-  - ''"'«-t\l.«  id 

fo..eo*faflal7flowf;"  "'"  '"''«'°""''  -*'>  'l-^ 

Ittd^re^irtj'''',ty  tS  "^"^  "^'''"-^'^ 
fi«  in  them  seemed  not"xac!lv  to  h  ""  "°  '"^  ^^^ 
Have  been  hidden  beh.^'^'  ';  ^  JrfilmT  °"'k  ''"u- V° 
one  couM  get  nothing  ^.^rit:lZtt^t 


» 


THE   CITY   OF   COMRADES 

baffle  me  she  couldn't  have  done  it  more  effectively;  but, 
as  I  learned  later,  she  meant  nothing  of  the  kind.  Her 
greeting,  as  far  as  I  could  judge  of  it,  was  precisely  that 
which  she  would  have  accorded  to  any  other  diner-out. 

During  the  exchange  of  commonplaces  that  ensued 
there  were  two  things  I  noticed  with  curiosity  and  un- 
easiness. She  wore  the  string  of  pearls  I  had  seen  once 
before — ^had  had  in  my  pocket,  as  a  matter  of  fact — and 
the  long  diamond  bar-pin.  As  to  her  rings  I  could  not 
be  sure,  having  on  the  night  when  I  meant  to  steal  them 
noticed  nothing  but  their  number.  But  the  pearls  and 
the  diamonds  arrested  my  attention — and  my  question- 
ings. Was  she  wearing  them  on  purpose?  Was  she  hold- 
ing them  up  as  silent  reminders  between  her  and  me? 
Was  I  to  understand  from  merely  looking  at  them  the 
charge  her  eyes  refused  to  convey? 

I  had  no  means  of  seeking  an  answer  to  these  questions, 
because  Coningsby  came  in  and  the  process  of  being  wel- 
comed had  to  be  gone  through  again.  Moreover,  the 
commonplaces  which,  when  carried  on  &  deux,  might  have 
led  to  something  more  personal  remained  as  common- 
places and  no  more  when  tossed  about  d  quatre. 

On  our  going  in  to  dinner  the  same  tone  was  main- 
tained, and  I  learned  nothing  from  any  interchange  of 
looks.  There  was,  in  fact,  no  interchange  of  looks.  Miss 
Barry  talked  to  her  right  and  to  her  left,  but  rarely  across 
the  table.  When  it  became  necessary  to  speak  a  word 
directly  to  me  she  did  it  with  so  hasty  a  glance  that  it 
might  easily  not  have  oeen  a  glance  at  all.  The  burning 
eyes  that  had  watched  me  so  intently  on  our  first  meeting, 
and  studied  me  with  so  much  laughing  curiosity  on  our 
second,  kept  themselves  hidden.  Since  it  was  on  them 
that  I  had  reckoned  to  tell  me  what  I  was  so  eager  to 
136 


THE   CITV  OF   COMRADES 

Well,  have  you  thought  of  it?"  ^' 

andT/es"'  st  h"  dTtTo  T'"'^  T^"  *°  ""  "> 
absent  and  rather  drea"     sT  '"'«"'^''  ""''-d'y-only 
but  n,ore  on  th^  sptrentalt':  ""  "*""  '^'^^''^^  «^'' 
Thought  of  what?" 

Oh,  thati    I'm  sorry  to  say  I've  been  t^  I, 
There  was  no  mistaking  the  sincerity  of  her  tone     <!1, 

I  must  plead  guilty  to  feeling  piqued.    Thatsh^.fc     u 

reS^tion^^^n'tme  t"t'-    ^%°^ '"^^  ^^^-"<=" 
"Yes-    r  T™         "     CL     *°  ''°"  "'^  ■«  ""^  accord." 

I  told  her. 

"He  wasn't  like  everybody  eke,"  d,e  pu„ued     "I 
wonder— I  wonder  if  you  arer  P»nued.      I 

10  137 


ii 


i   ! 


THE   CITY   OF   COMRADES 

"Wouldn't  that  depend  on  what  you  mean  by  being 
like  everybody  else?  I  don't  know  that  I  get  your 
nandard." 

"Oh,  men  are  so  much  alike.  There's  no  more  daFer- 
ence  between  them  than  between  so  many  beans  in  a 
bottle." 

"  I  don't  see  that.  To  my  mind  they're  all  distinct  from 
one  another." 

"In  little  ways,  yes.  But  when  it  comes  to  the  big 
ways — " 

"What  are  the  big  ways?" 

She  weighed  this,  a  forefinger  against  a  cheek. 

"The  big  ways  are  those  which  indicate  character, 
aren't  they?  While  the  little  ones  only  make  for  habits. 
Men  differ  as  to  their  habits,  but  in  character  they're 
all  cut  on  the  same  pattern — ^two  or  three  patterns  at 
most." 

"But  can't  you  say  the  same  of  women?" 

"Very  likely;  only  I  don't  have  to  marry  a  woman." 

Since  she  had  become  personal,  I  ventured  to  do  the 
same. 

"Oh,  so  it's  a  question  of  marriage!" 

"What  other  question  is  there  when  a  girl  like  me  is 
twenty-three?  One  has  to  decide  that  tiresome  bit  of 
business  before  one  can  tackle  anything  else." 

I  grew  bolder. 

"Decide  as  to  whom  to  many — or  whether  or  not  to 
marry  at  all?" 

"Suppose  I  said  as  to  whether  or  not  to  marry  at  all?" 

"You  mean  that  you'd  like  advice?" 

"I'd  listen  to  advice — if  you've  any  to  give." 

I  gathered  all  my  strength  together  for  the  most  tre- 
mendous effort  of  my  life. 

138 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

worU  different  from  any  you've  ever  seen  yet.    V^'r 

^.^  Med  n,y  chair  so  that  her  eye.  a«ed  on  me  „,o« 
"How?" 

niu«n  t.    I. should  love  t(^hough  I  never  shall." 
Was  It— interesting?" 

shlTK'T'    ^"' *''•"''    I'™  "°t  going  to  tell  you.     I 

Ba!^'  SulZ?  "T  '"' V  '"'°  ^''^  ~°"'  *°  »»t  if  Miss 
aarry  wouldn  t  join  his  wife  in  the  nursery  to  see  little 
Rufus  while  he  was  awake.    In  the  mean  time  he  aS 

Whiirifolll'^K"'"  ^""^^^'^  ='"''  ^'"'^  •>-'"- 

to  her  as  a  possibility  that  the  man  who  wrote  thos" 
words  IS  the  one  she  is  now  asked  to  meet  at  dinner 

When  I  found  the  opportunity  I  put  the  question 

^  About  you?    You  mean  about— " 

The  Down  and  Out." 
"Lord,  nol    What  would  be  the  good  of  that?" 
139 


•  (  ' 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 
"The  only  good  would  be  that-that  I  shouldn't  be 
■ailine  under  false  colors. 

•'F^lse  colors  be  hanged!  We've  all  got  a  nght  to  the 
privacy  of  our  private  lives.  You  don't  go  nosing  into 
any  one  else's  soul;  why  should  any  one  else  go  nosing 
rZ  yours?  Why,  if  I  were  to  tell  my  wife  all  I  could 
tell  her  about  myself  I  should  be  ashamed  to  come  home. 

I  knew  this  argument,  and  yet  when  I  came  to  apply 
it  to  my  attitude  toward  Regina  Barry  I  was  not  satisfied. 


I  'S 


CHAPTER  XI 


A  FEW  days  later  I  was  surprised  to  receive  a  note 
from  Annette  van  Elstine.    It  ran: 

Dear  Frank, — I  hare  Just  heard  that  you  are  m  New  York 
^-that  you  have  been  here  some  time.  Why  did  you  never 
come  to  see  me  7  It  was  not  kind.  And  didn't  you  know  that 
your  mother  has  been  heartbroken  over  your  disappearance? 
Jerry  and  Jack  knew  you  were  somewhere  in  this  country,  but 
they've  kept  your  mother  in  the  dark.  What  does  it  all  mean? 
Come  to  tea  with  me — just  me — on  Friday  afternoon  at  five, 
and  tell  me  all  about  it. 

Your  affecrionate 

Annbttb. 

As  this  was  the  first  bit  of  connection  with  my  own 
family  since  Jerry  had  practically  kicked  me  down  h! ' 
steps,  I  was  deeply  perturbed  by  it.  I  am  not  without 
natural  aiFection,  and  yet  I  seemed  to  have  died  to  the 
old  life  as  completely  as  Lovey  to  that  with  his  daughters. 
I  had  never  forgotten  Jerry's  words:  "And  now  get  out. 
Don't  let  any  of  us  ever  see  your  face  or  hear  your  name 
again." 

The  very  fact  that  he  was  justified  had  roused  the  fool- 
ish remnant  of  my  pride. 

I  had  loved  my  mother;  I  had  reverenced  my  father; 

though  my  brothers  were  indifferent  to  me,  I  had  felt  a 

genuine  tenderness  for  my  sisters.    But  since  that  night 

on  Jerry's  steps  it  had  been  to  me  as  if  I  had  put  myself 

»4» 


ft 


Id '' 


f  '1 

¥1  I 

m  'I 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

on  <«e  side  of  a  flood  and  left  them  on  the  other,  and 
that  there  was  no  magic  skiff  that  would  cany  me  back 
whence  I  came.  I  cannot  say  that  I  grieved  for  them; 
and  it  was  the  last  of  my  thoughts  that  they  would 
grieve  for  me.  I  accepted  the  condition  that  we  were 
dead  to  each  other,  and  tried  to  bury  memory. 

And  now  came  this  first  stirring  of  resurrection.  It 
hurt  me.  I  didn't  want  it.  It  was  like  the  return  of  life 
to  a  frozen  limb.    Numbness  was  preferable  to  anguish. 

"Lovey,"  t  said,  as  the  old  man  hung  about  me  when 
I  was  undressing  that  night,  "how  would  you  feel  if  one 
of  your  daughters — " 

He  raised  himself  from  the  task  of  pulling  off  my 
boots,  which  to  humor  him  I  allowed  him  to  perform, 
and  looked  at  me  in  terror. 

"They  ain't — they  ain't  after  me?" 

"No,  no  I  But  suppose  they  were-^wouldn't  you  like 
to  see  them?" 

He  dropped  the  boot  he  held  in  his  hand. 

"Y' ain't  goin'  to  'ave  them  'unted  up  for  me.  Slim?" 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  them,  Lovey.  That 
isn't  my  point  at  all.  But  suppose— just  suppose— you 
could  see  them  again;  would  you  do  it?" 

He  shook  his  bald  head. 

"They're  dead  to  me.  I'm  dead  to  them.  If  we  was 
to  sec  each  other  now  'twouldn't  be  nothink  but  diggin' 
up  a  corpse." 

"Nothink  but  diggin'  up  a  corpse,"  I  repeated  to  myself 
as  I  turned  east  from  Fifth  Avenue,  leaving  the  brown 
trees  of  the  Park  behind  me,  and  took  the  few  steps 
necessary  to  reach  my  uncle  Van  Elstine's  door.  He  had 
married  my  mother's  sister,  and  during  the  lifetime  of 
my  aunt  the  families  had  been  fairly  intimate.    Of  late 

142 


THE   CITY  OF  COMRADES 

fBMi  they  had  drifted  apart,  a*  familie*  wffl,  thou^ 
touch-and-go  relation!  were  itill  maintained. 

I  have  to  admit  that  while  waiting  for  Annette  in  the 
Iibraiy  up-jtairs  I  wai  nervous.  I  was  coming  back  to 
that  family  hfe  in  which  I  should  have  interests,  affec- 
tocms,  cares,  responsibilities.  For  the  past  three  yean  I 
bad  had  no  one  to  think  of  but  myself;  and  if  in  that 
freedom  there  were  heartaches,  there  were  no  complexities. 

Though  It  was  not  yet  dark,  the  curtains  were  drawn 
and  the  room  was  lighted  not  only  by  a  shaded  lamp,  but 
by  the  flicker  of  a  fire.  When  Annette,  wearing  a  tea- 
gown,  appeared  at  last  in  the  doorway  she  stood  for  a 
second  to  examine  me. 

"Why,  Jack!"  she  exclaimed,  then.  "I  didn't  know 
you  were  in  New  York.  Have  you  brought  Frank  with 
your 

"I  am  Frank,"  I  laughed,  going  forward  to  oflfer  my 
hand.  "1  didn't  know  Jack  and  I  were  so  much  alike. 
But  you  re  the  second  person  who  has  said  it  within  a  few 
days. 

"It's  your  mustache,  I  think,"  she  explained  as  we 
shook  hands.    "I  never  saw  you  wear  one  before." 

"I  never  did." 

"Do  sit  down.  They'll  bring  tea  in  a  minute.  I'm 
so  glad  to  see  you.  But  if  it's  not  a  rude  question,  teU 
me  why  you've  been  here  aU  this  time  and  never  let  me 
know." 

It  would  be  difficult  to  define  the  conditions  which 
made  Annette  at  the  age  of  thirty-three  what  Cantyre 
styled  one  of  the  smartest  women  in  New  York,  but  the 
^  mnute  you  saw  her  you  felt  that  it  was  so.  My  uncle 
Van  Elstine  was  only  comfortably  off;  their  house  was 
not  large;  though  they  entertained  a  good  deal,  their 
1*3 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

manner  of  Uving  wa»  not  ihowy.  But  my  aunt  Van 
EUtine  had  ertabliihed  the  tradition— wme  women  have 
the  art  of  doing  it— that  whatever  the  had  and  did  and 
•aid  wai  "the  thing,"  and  Annette,  at  her  only  child  and 
heirsu,  had  kept  it  up.  . .  .   u  j 

A«  far  as  I  could  underatand  the  matter,  which  had 
been  explained  to  me  once  or  twice,  my  aunt  wai  ex- 
clusive.    In  the  rush  of  the  newly  come  and  the  rise  of 
the  newly  rich,  which  marked  the  last  quarter  of  die 
nineteenth  century  in  New  York,  she  and  a  few  like- 
minded  friends  had  made  it  their  business  to  pick  and 
choose  and  form  what  might  literally  be  called  mtMe. 
By  1913,  however,  the  elite  was  not  only  formed  but 
founded  on  a  rock  as  firm  as  the  granite  of  Manhattan, 
and  Annette's  picking  and  choosing  could  be  ori  another 
principle.     Hers  was  that  more  civilized  American  ten- 
dency to  know  every  one  worth  knowing,  which  is  still 
largely  confined,  so  they  tell  me,  to  Washington  and  New 
York.    Where  her  mother  had  withdrawn  Annette  went 
forward.     Her  flair  for  the  important  or  the  soon  to  be 
important  was  unerring.     Hers  was  one  of  the  few  draw- 
ing-rooms through  which  every  one  interesting,   both 
domestic  and  foreign,  was  boi>nd  at  some  time  to  pass. 
Being  frankly  and  unrestrainedly  curious,  she  kept  in 
touch  with  the  small  as  well  as  with  the  gr^at,  with  the 
young  as  well  as  with  the  old,  maintaining  an  enormous 
correspondence,  and  getting  out  of  her  correspondents 
every  ounce  of  entertainment  they  could  yield  her.    On 
her  side  she  repaid  them  by  often  lending  them  a  helping 
hand.  , 

The  warmth  of  her  greeting  now  was  due  not  to  the 
fact  that  I  was  her  cousin,  but  to  her  belief  that  I  had- 
been  up  to  something.    It  was  always  those  who  had 
144 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

been  up  to  tomething  with  whom  the  was  most  eager  to 
come  heart  to  heart.  Without  temptations  of  her  own, 
as  far  as  I  could  ever  see,  she  got  from  the  indiscretions 
of  others  the  same  sort  of  pleasure  that  a  scientist  finds 
m  ttudymg  the  wrigglings  of  microbes  under  a  microscope. 
Havmg  some  inkling  of  this,  I  answered  her  questions 
not  untruthfully,  but  with  reservations,  saying  that  I 
had  not  come  to  see  her  because  I  had  been  down  on  my 
luck.  ' 

"And  how  did  you  come  to  be  down  on  your  luck?" 

"Can't  you  guess?" 

"You  don't  look  it  now." 

"I've  been  doing  better  lately.  I've  made  two  or 
three  friends  who've  given  me  a  hand."  Carrying  the 
attack  m  her  direction,  I  asked,  "How  did  yon  hear  that 
I  was  in  New  York  r  e«  mat 

"Hilda  Grace  told  me.  She  said  you'd  been  working 
on  that  manorial  of  hers.  She  thought  it  awfully  strange 
—you  won't  think  me  rude  in  repeating  it?— that  a  man 
like  you  should  be  only  in  a  secondary  position." 

"If  she  knew  how  glad  I  was  to  get  that—" 

She  changed  the  subject  abruptly. 

"When  did  you  last  hear  from  home?" 

I  thought  it  sufficient  to  say:  "Not  for  a  long  time.  I 
may  as  well  admit  that  nowadays  I  never  hear  from 
home  at  all." 

II And,  if  it's  not  a  rude  question,  why  don't  you?" 

"Partly,  I  suppose,  because  I  don't  write." 

"So  I  understood  from  Jack.  But,  Frank  dear,  do  you 
think  it  kindr 

I  broke  in  with  the  question,  the  answer  to  which  I 
had  really  come  to  get,  "When  did  you  last  see  Jack?" 


About  eighteen  months  ago;    just  before  he 


»4S 


was 


:l| 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

married.    He  knew  you  were  lomewhere  about,  but  he 

wam't  confidential  on  the  subject." 
"No;  he  wouldn't  be.    Did  he  leem  all  right?" 
"Quite;  and  awfully  in  love  with  Mary  Sweet.  What'e 

.he  like,  really?" 

I  described  my  new  sister-in-law  as  I  remembered  her, 
going  on  to  say:  "I  suppose  you  gave  Jack  a  good  time. 
Did  you — did  you  take  him  about  anywhere?^' 

"Let  me  see.  I  took  him  to— where  was  it?  I  took 
him  to  the  Wynfords'— and— and— oh,  yes!— to  the 
Bartys'.  And  it's  too  funny!  I  really  think  Regina  fell 
in  love  with  him  at  first  sight.  For  a  month  or  two  she 
quesrioned  me  about  him  evety  time  we  met.  Then  all 
of  a  sudden  she  stopped.  If  she  was  struck  by  the 
thunderbolt,  as  the  French  put  it— well,  all  I  can  say 
is  that  it  serves  her  right." 

''Serves  her  right— what  for?" 

"Oh,  the  way  she's  carried  on.  It's  disgraceful.  Do 
you  know  her?    Her  father  is  an  architect,  like  you." 

Annette's  round,  dusky  face,  which  had  no  beauty  but 
a  quick,  dimpling  play  of  expression,  was  one  that  easily 
betrayed  her  ruling  passion  of  curiosity.  It  was  now  so 
alight  with  anticipauon  that  I  tried  to  be  more  than  ever 
casual. 

"I've— I've  just  met  her." 

"Wherer  . 

"Once  at  the  memorial,  when  she  came  with  Mrs. 
Grace;  and  a  few  nights  ago  I  dined  with  her  at  the 
Coningsbys'."  ,     t    i. » 

"I  wonder  she  didn't  take  you  for  Jack. 

To  this  I  was  not  obliged  to  make  a  response  for  the 
reason  that,  the  man  having  arrived  with  the  tea,  Annette 
had  to  give  her  attention  to  the  placing  of  the  tray, 
146 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

When  I  had  taken  a  cup  of  tea  from  her  hand  I  created 
•  diversion  w,th  the  que«,o«.  "What  did  you  mean  by 
«^       ^»y  »"«  earned  on  was  disgraceful  f" 
Why,  the  way  the  gets  engaged  and  disengaged.    It'. 
betti  three  time,  in  a.  many  years,  and  goodness  know, 
now  many  more  experiments—" 
••I  suppose  she's  trying  to  iind  the  right  man." 
It  s  pretty  hard  on  those  she  takes  up  and  puts  down 

Setoe'nY^    ''''"  *"  '""  "  ^'"  ^'  ^'^'^  "^^ 
^^Isn't  it  better  to  get  left  than  to  many  the  wrong 

"The  very  day  I  took  Jack  to  we  her  she'd  broken  off 
her  engagement  to  Jim  Hunter.    I  didn't  know  it  at  the 

JTA  aC""'  ^°  °'  *'"*'  '^='y»  '"*"  ''«''°«  «  came  out 
U  1  had  known  it  and  told  Jack—" 

•]WelI,  what  then?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  say  anything.  They  were  awfully  taken 
with  each  other.  But  I'm  glad  he  was  saved.  If  he 
hadn  t  gone  straight  back  to  Montreal  he  might  now  be 
in  the  place  of  poor  Stephen  Cantyre." 

"I  see  a  good  deal  of  Canty te."  " 

"So  I  understand." 

"Who  told  you?" 
^       'Elsie  Coningsby." 

"You  seem  to  have  got  a  good  deal  of  information 
about  me  all  of  a  sudden." 

"Because  you've  dropped  right  into  the  little  circle 
m  which  we  all  know  one  another   with   a   kind  of 

rf  Xge;."'"'""'"^'    ^'"  ^""^  "  "^'^  '^  ^°"8-- 
"But  any  one  could  see  that  Cantyre  would  never 
make  a  husband  for  a  high-spirited  girl  like  Miss  Barry." 
147 


') 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 
"How  do  you  know  the'i  hifh-ipinted,  if  «'•  not  • 

lude  queftion?" 
"(Ml,  one  can  tell."  ^^ 

"You've  leen  her  only  twice.    You  mutt  have  noticed 

her  very  particularly."  .    ,    ,  j  •  -  .. 

"I've  noticed  Cantyre  very  particulariy;   and  jun  ai 

he  wouldn't  make  her  the  right  kind  of  hu.band  the 

wouldn't  make  him  the  right  kmd  of  wife. 
When  Annette  said  anything  in  which  there  wa.  a 

necial  motive  a  ieriea  of  concentric  shadows  Hed  over 

her  face  like  ripples  from  the  spot  where  a  ttone  is  thrown 

into  a  pool*  *«  •    *    >  j 

"Well,  I'm  glad  you  don't  like  her,  if  K  wn  t  a  rude 

"What'has  my  liking  her  or  not  liking  her  got  to  do 

with  it?"  •         jf 

"Nothing  but  the  question  of  your  own  safety,    u 
she  notices  how  much  you're  like  Jack— "  ^ 

"If  she  was  going  to  notice  that,"  I  said,  boldly,    she 
would  have  done  it  already."  .,..__  „i^. 

"And  so  much  the  worse  for  you  if  she  ha»-unlM» 
you're  put  on  your  guard."  ...  * 

"If  you  mean  put  on  my  guard  againtt  the  danger  of 
being  Cantyre's  successor  in  a  similar  expenence— 

"That  was  my  idea."  ^ 

"WeU,  I  can  give  you  all  the  reassurance  you  need, 
Annette.    In  the  first  place,  I've  got  no  money- 

The  relevance  of  her  interrupaon  did  not  come  to  me 
till  neatly  a  year  later.  .         .      ,  ;,. 

"Frank  dear,  I  mutt  ask  you,  whde  i  think  o»  rt, 
didn't  you  know  that  your  mother  was  very,  very  lur 

All  the  blood  in  my  body  seemed  to  rush  back  to  my 
heart  and  to  rtay  there.    We  talked  no  mote  of  Regina 
148 


THE   CITY  OF  COMRADES 

Biny,  nor  of  anything  but  tt«rk  fimdamentd  realitic 
In  an  inatant  they  became  aa  much  the  etsentiaU  of  my 

•howed  henelf  much  better  mfoimed  ,.  to  my  career  than 
ahe  pretended  to  be,  pving  me  to  underitand  that  the 
day  on  which  f  di.appeared  my  mother  had  received  a 
kind  of  death-blow.  She  wa.  of  the  type  to  leave  the 
ninety  and  nine  in  the  wilderaea.  to  go  after  that  which 
wai  lost;  and  in  her  mability  to  do  «o  the  had  been  leized, 
ao  Annette  told  me,  with  a  mortal  pining  away.  With 
her  decline  my  father  was  declining  also,  and  all  because 
ot  me. 

"I've  been  the  most  awful  rotter,  Annette,"  I  groaned. 

ai  I  staggered  to  my  feet.    "  You  know  that,  don't  you  ?" 

Yes,  Frank,  I  do  know  it.    That's  why  I've  been  so 

glad  to  get  hold  of  you  at  last,  and  ask  you  to-to  redeem 

yourself." 

"Redeem  myself  by  going  back?" 
She  looked  up  at  me  and  nodded. 
''Oh,  but  how  can  I  r 


CHAPTER  XII 


'M 


MY  question  was  answered  next  evening  by  Beady 
Lamont.  . 

Greatly  to  Lovey's  disgust,  1  made  it  a  point  to  attend 
every  Saturday  meeting  at  the  club.  ^ 

"Them  low  fellas  ain't  fit  company  for  you,  Slun, 
he  would  protest.    "What's  the  use  of  cuttin'  out  the 
boore  and  bein'  rich  if  you  don't  'old  yer  'ead  above  the 
likes  o' that?" 

"They've  been  awfully  white  with  us,  Lovey. 
"They  wasn't  no  whiter  with  us  than  they'd  be  with 
anybody  else;  and  don't  three  out  o'  every  five  give  'em 
the  blue  Peter?" 

But  though  we  had  this  discussion  once  a  week,  he 
always  accompanied  me  to  Vandiver  Street,  showing  hi« 
disapproval  when  he  got  there  in  sitting  by  himself  and 
refusing  to  respond  to  advances. 

I  have  to  confess  that  I  needed  the  fellowship  of  men 
who  had  been  through  the  same  mill  as  myself,  in  order 
to  keep  up  the  fight.  Again  let  me  repeat  it,  I  am  giving 
you  but  a  faint  idea  of  the  struggle  I  had  to  make.  No 
evU  habit  relinquishes  its  hold  easily,  and  the  one  to 
which  I  had  given  myself  over  is  perhaps  the  most  te- 
nacious of  all.  It  would  be  wearisome  if  I  were  to  keep 
telling  you  how  near  1  came  at  times  to  courting  the 
old  disaster,  and  how  close  the  shave  by  which  I  sheered 
away;  but  I  never  felt  safer  than  a  bUnd  man  walkmg 
ISO 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

iriHf  °K  "'"[•.  **°."  *•""  °"« I  *»'*  the  blue 
^JT  "y  '?""«»*°»':'  though  on  each  occasion  I 
juggled  myself  ,„to  putting  it  back  again.  I  juggled 
myself  as  I  d.d  on  the  mottling  when  I  ga^d  at  the  b«w^ 
green  water  flowing  beneath  Greeley's  Slip.  I  s"d  t^ 
what  I  didn't  do  tcMlay  I  would  still  be'free  to  do  t" 
morrow,  thus  t.dmg  myself  over  the  worst  minutes,  tf 
only  by  a  process  of  postponement. 

talT  nf  T"*  "^  •"*'"'"  "  *•>'  ''"''  I  h"«J  so  many 
tafe,  of  heroic  resistance  that  I  grew  ashamed  of  my 
penods  of  weakness.  What  Pyn  and  Mouse  and  t"e 
Scotchman  and  the  piano-mover  and  Beady  Lamont 
could  do,  I  told  myself.  I  also  rould  do.    MorLer  „Tw 

tu'rHe^r  '%'\'  rv''""  °"^  °f  '•'-  «<iu"t7d't;;: 

turned  to  me  for  help.  To  a  journalist  named  EdmonT 
and  to  an  actor  named  Prince.  I  stood  as  nextTriS 
«id  only  dedmed  to  officiate  in  the  same  capacity  for 
Headlights,  the  big^yed  tailor,  and  the  wee  bye  Daisy 
when  they  returned,  penitent,  on  the  ground  th«  I 
couldnt  watch  over  more  than  two  m»  efficemly 
Wuh  the  actor  I  had  no  trouble,  but  twice  I  had  to  g^ 

Tli„  A^  ""  .°"*  "^^  P""'"8  me  on  all  my  mettle; 
ml  f  °M  '  ^^  """*""  ""y  """tl'  I  ^'^  to  stay  out 
tTman  wfT  ""'.T  "'"  "°  "^^  """^  than  th«  of 
for  sTaL  w''°"L'^  *"™  "■'  '"  '^'  ''"tie  if  it  weren't 
for  shame  before  his  comrades;  but  there  is  something 
to  be  got  out  of  even  such  valor  as  that  * 

UD  a  J,'ff'''V'".''  ^  ^V  "•    ^"•'"P*  ^^  ^«'«  »"  putting 

were  inwardly  no  more  glorious  than  I.     But  when  the 

turn.  I  was  obliged  to  hve  up  to  their  commendation. 
'SI 


THE   CITY  OF  COMRADES 

There  came,  indeed,  a  time  when  I  couldn't  help  seeing 
that  in  the  eyes  of  new-comen  especially  I  was  taken  a* 
a  pillar  of  the  club,  and  knew  that  I  couldn't  fall  with- 
out bringing  down  some  of  the  living  walls  along  with 
me.  To  be  strong  enough  to  hold  up  my  portion  of  the 
weight  became  once  more  with  me  then  a  question  of 
noblesse  oblige. 

The  Saturday  evening  after  my  talk  with  Annette 
was  a  special  one.  After  the  actor,  the  journalist,  Head- 
lights, and  Daisy  had  renewed  their  pledge  for  a  week, 
Lovey  and  I  stood  up  with  the  Scotchman,  the  piano- 
mover,  and  three  or  four  others,  and  repeated  ours  for 
a  month.  It  probably  seems  a  simple  thing  to  you; 
but  for  us  who  knew  what  had  been  our  perils  during  the 
preceding  month  and  the  months  preceding  that,  it  was 
a  solemn  undertaking.  The  first  vow  of  all  had  been 
relatively  easy,  since  new  resolutions  have  an  attraction 
in  themselves.  The  weekly  vows  that  came  afterward 
were  not  so  fiercely  hard,  because  they  were  but  weekly. 
When  it  came  to  promising  for  a  month — well,  I  can  only 
say  that  to  us  a  month  had  the  length  which  it  has  to  a 
child.  It  seemed  to  stretch  on  indefinitely  ahead  of  one. 
The  foe,  retreating  as  we  pressed  forward,  was  always 
keeping  up  a  rear-guard  fight,  and  we  never  woke  in  the 
morning  without  being  aware  that  we  might  strike  an 
ambush  before  nightfall.  We  got  so  tired  of  the  struggle 
that  we  often  thought  of  the  relief  it  would  be  to  be 
captured;  and  many  a  time  the  resolution  was  made  that 
when  this  month  was  up  .  .  . 

And  just   at  these  minutes  the  chaps  who  seemed 

stronger  would  close  in  about  us,  or  those  who  seeined 

weaker  would  make  some  appeal,  and  when  the  critical 

Saturday  evening  came  round  we  would  walk  up  again, 

IS* 


THE   CITY  OF  COMRADES 
™P*Bed  by  force,  beyond  our  control,  and  repledge  ou^ 
On  such  occasions  there  was  always  some  word  spoken 
sL  tK^"  """  ''^°  •'"/  '""«'•*  '""eer  than  we  had  a^ 

Haker'trtr  ^r"'' """"  '^n'"^'''-  ^hat  night  the 
speaker  to  the  blue-star  men  was  that  dub  benefactor  and 
favome,  Beady  Lamont.  He  was  a  huge  mass  of  musde 
tummg  the  scale  at  three  hundred  and  more.  St'e^' 
was  m  every  movement  when  he  walked  and  evenr  pf^ 
when  he  «ood  still.  To  my  architect's  eye  he  pTan^ed  h^ 
SmL'  ^•°"f''  *•";;  "'"  '""'^«  Egyptian  monoHth" 
Hk^a  .»T?  ^'"""  "-""^  "'«  "Momen.  his  chest  was 
Snf  Here,.?"""-  "u  "T-''"*  "''y  «'^«  »  <»««=riP- 
of  Gath  and  rh"'r  ''"^'  ^"  ^^'  ''''"'  '""^  Goliath 
TT,„,e  n  ^"''»?f°«'  and  the  Giants  that  were  in 
TJose  Days.  They  said  that  in  drink  he  used  to  be  ter- 
nble.  but  now  h.s  b>g,  jolly  face  was  all  a  quiver  of  good- 

His  voice  was  one  of  those  husky  chuckles  of  which 
Je  very  gutgl.^  make  you  laugh.  To  make  you  Taugh 
was  h.s  pnncple  function  in  the  club.  On  thf,  evening 
he  began  his  talk  with  a  string  of  those  amusing,  di,! 
com^ected  anecdotes  which  used  to  be  a  feature  of^;fter^ 
dmner  speeches    somewhat  as  a  boy  will  splash  about 

Li  V  ^u"  ^'  '"«^"*  *°  '"^"'-     B"t  when  he 

swam  It  was  with  vigor. 

tin"'^i!r  ""T  °^^°"  ""*•«"  8"y»  ■■"  P^l'aWy  hit- 

Ir  ■?!«'  ^i'PV''"  V'^"«  *°  "'='^'  <^°^  »"  over 
\%  ™  Th«  .  f»™l>e»-  Say.  ain't  families  the  deuce? 
You  may  run  like  a  hare,  or  climb  like  a  squirrel,  or  light 

trJ^:i.e.".*!:r»»l^°-  '-"^  ■«  ^e  at  your  heeV 


•  somethin'  fierce.    You 


11 


IS3 


can  never  get  away  from 


i^^ 

m 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

them;  they'll  never  let  you  get  away  from  them.  Be- 
cause"— his  voice  fell  to  a  tone  of  solemnity — "because 
no  matter  how  fast  you  sprint,  or  how  high  you  climb,  or 
how  graceful  you  can  dodge — you  carries  your  family 
with  you.  You  can  no  more  turn  your  back  on  it  than 
you  can  on  your  own  stummick.  You  may  refuse  to 
pervide  for  it,  you  may  treat  it  cruel,  you  may  leave  it 
to  look  out  for  itself;  but  you  can  never  git  away  from 
knowin'  in  your  heart  that  if  you're  a  bum  husband  or 
father  or  son  you're  considerable  more  bum  as  a  man. 
That's  why  the  family  is  after  us.  Can't  shake  'em  ofiFI 
Got  'em  where  they  won't  be  shook  off.  God  A'mighty 
Hisself  put  'em  there,  and,  oh,  boys,  listen  to  me  and  I'll 
tell  you  why." 

He  made  dabs  at  his  wrists  as  though  to  turn  up  his 
sleeves,  like  a  man  warming  to  his  work.  Taking  a  step 
or  twu  forward  he  braced  his  left  hand  on  his  barrel- 
shaped  hip,  while  his  gigantic  forefinger  was  pointed 
dramatically  toward  his  audience. 

"Say,  did  any  of  you  married  guys  ever  wish  to  God 
you  was  single  again?  Sure  you  did!  Was  any  of  you 
chaps  with  two  or  three  little  kids  to  feed  ever  sorry  for 
the  day  when  he  heard  the  first  of  his  young  ones  cry? 
Surest  thing  you  knowl  Did  any  of  us  with  a  father  and 
a  mother,  with  brothers  and  sisters,  too,  very  likely,  ever 
kick  because  we  hadn't  been  bom  an  orphan  and  an  only 
child?  You  bet  your  sweet  life  we  did!  The  drinkin' 
man  don't  want  no  hangers-on.  He  wants  to  be  free. 
Life  ain't  worth  a  burnt  match  to  him  when  he's  got  other 
people  to  think  of,  and  a  home  to  keep  up,  and  can't 
spend  every  penny  on  hisself.  Some  of  us  here  to-night 
has  cursed  our  wives;  some  of  us  has  beat  our  children; 
some  of  us  has  cut  out  father  and  mother  as  if  they'd 
IS4 


THE   CITY  OF  COMRADES 
^"'Jr  """•"'  '■°'  "*  «d  ^  could  cast  off  fmm 

there,  and  care   andZlH;^/  "«  8'v«  "»  Wndnes. 

that  fi,.  thc^'^h^  u^itrT^/':  .f  ;r-.;''-«  *"'•"« 

bv  and  hv  ♦„  »        J    another  feeling— one  that  druv  lu 

it  yet  'II  do"t  before  the  „.  f'^""  ^''^  ''='^^"'*  '1°°« 
boys,  what's  it  aU  S  Eve'V  "  ^""  '*  °«-  »«' 
J.in'  ot  else  it's  iuSu™tX"'tL'rnd^  tdT 

5:^  yo-^SYn'dtl^rei^tf^^^       ^'"htt 

""S^wT^dlP"^— 

was  th:i„r'  itzzr.z-^'^'r'  *°  ^'"^ « 

mother.    Them  thiZi.  T         1   "'^  "^  f"*""  and 
But  I'll  speaker  „r*  1°°  '*""'*  *°  ''•=  *'°^^"i  out. 

ha,  been  done  t^«  L  mt^K"^  ''^"'^'''"^  ''°"«  '""^  ■"« 
-that  she'd  likeTe  toSh  •'""'"  u"  "'"•='''  ^^^  »>er 
to  say.  I've  Icnol  the  d^fe  wheLTw t "^"^  '''''  "^ 
quit  of  my  family  as  a  do.  ^K  •"?  r  .  ""  ""^^  *°  •>« 
hi«tail.  Ihada^fe  2*  7u°'*''r'"""  ««<*  *° 
my  GodI  but  I  thr^Jht^r'  '  *'"r  "''''''^^'"  ^-d.  O 
nowhere  without  tW^r  T  "  \'^^  ^  ^°"''>«'*  «° 
couldn't  take  a  dnJk  ^.J  °"l '  *°  '''  ^'^  '«='"•  =""»  I 

f- -y«SLy"a':fd:?^:jrj^,;  "s,:-  "-V" 

P  ison  of  my  life     Tht-J^        •  l  ^  .       ^  "^^  ^as  the 


'^1 


1 ;        t'i 


THE   CITY   OF  COMRADES 

down  durin'  the  day  and  they  buried  in  the  ashe..  That'd 
leave  me  free  again.  Not  to  have  no  home— not  to 
have  to  ante  up  for  no  one  but  myself— was  the  only  thing 
I  ever  prayed  for.  And  by  gum,  but  my  prayer  was 
answered  I  One  night  1  come  home  and  found  the  house 
empty.  My  wife  had  decamped,  and  left  a  note  that  nm 
somethin*  like  this:  'Dear  Beady,'  says  she,  I  cant 
stand  this  life  no  more,'  says.  she.  'If  it  was  only  me  I 
wouldn't  mind;  but  I  can't  see  my  children  kicked  and 
beat  and  starved  and  hated,  not  by  no  one.  And  then 
she  signed  her  name.  ,       .       j     u  »  u,^ 

"Well,  say,  boys,  most  of  you  has  heard  what  hap- 
pened to  me  after  that.  I  sure  had  one  grand  time  while 
it  lasted— and  it  lasted  just  about  six  months.  I  saw  a 
man  oncet— we  was  movin'  a  party  from  Harlem  to  the 
Bronx— fall  down  a  flight  of  stairs  with  a  sofa  on  his  back, 
and  he  sure  did  get  some  pace  on.  Well,  my  Pa«:e  "« 
just  about  as  quick-and  as  dead  easy  as  he  struck  the 
landin'  at  the  bottom  I  struck  the  gutter.  Now  you 
know  the  rest  of  my  story,  because  some  of  you  guys 

has  had  a  hand  in  it.  .     . .      tt.        u      t  k-^ 

"But  what  I  want  to  tell  you  is  this:  That  when  1  be- 
gun  to  come  to  again,  as  you  might  say,  the  fim  thii«  1 
wondered  about  was  the  wife  and  the  kids.  I  couldnt 
get  'em  out  of  my  mind,  nohow.  What  did  I  ever  have 
'em  for?  I  asked  myself.  Why  in  hell  did  I  ever  get  mar- 
ried? Nobody  never  druv  me  into  it.  I  did  it  of  my 
own  accord.  I  went  hangin'  after  the  giri,  who  had  a 
Kood  place  in  the  kitchen  department  of  a  big  store,  and 
I  never  let  her  have  no  peace  till  she  said  shed  many 
me,  and  did  it.  Why  had  I  been  such  a  crazy  fool? 
There  was  days  and  days,  sittin'  right  m  there  m  that 
back  room,  when  I  asked  myself  that;  and  at  last  I  got 
156 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

go  on  wishin'  no  such  thine-  for  IV„  »  •  •'  "^'J""  «  y°" 
God  A't^uu.       ■  j  ^'      "^ '  •"  8om'  to  te  I  you  what 

God^A  n,.ghty  .aid  to  me  right  there  in  that  back  settin'- 

-a  his  big  chest  exp^^ded   '      '"  ^"  *""'"'  P~^«' 

?ou£    hat'LthTn'''r°  ""  '"'  '""^  ^"""^  "'«>"' 

ifldidn'tlTgocJ^y"   SoT-i"?  r  ^''r  '""'  '- 
I  »  u  go  crazy,     ao  1  make  beautiful  wnrl/l<>  ,-j 

157  "^ 


i:> 


I  * 


I*!;  ■  ,fi! 

!^ :  ii 


THE   CITY   OF   COMRADES 

you  a  wife  and  three  fine  youngMen.  Now  get  out  and 
get  after  thern.  Cut  out  Uvin*  for  yourself  and  live  for 
them.  You  mutt  low  your  life  to  find  it;  and  the  quick- 
est way  to  lose  your  Ufe  is  not  to  think  about  your  beastly 
cravings  at  all.  ^   •  »»    .  i. 

"Well,  by  gumi  boys,  if  I  didn't  take  God  A  mighty 
at  His  word.  I  says  to  myself,  I'll  prove  this  thing  or 
bust— and  it  I  was  to  bust  there'd  be  some  explosion. 
When  you  fellows  had  kept  me  here  long  enough  to  let 
me  be  pretty  nigh  sure  of  myself  I  went  and  looked  up 
the  wife,  and— well,  there!  I  needn't  say  no  more.  Some 
of  you  dubs  has  been  up  to  my  little  place  and  you  know 
that  Whatever  spoke  to  me  that  day  in  that  back  room 
is  in  my  little  tenement  in  the  Bronx  if  He  ever  was  any- 
where—and that  brings  me  at  last  to  my  p'lnt. 

"I'm  speakin'  to  you  blue-star  men  because  youve 
showed  pretty  weU  by  this  time  the  stufiF  you're  made  of. 
As  long  as  you  was  in  danger  of  sUppin'  back  I  woiUdn  t 
say  this  to  you  at  aU.  But,  say,  you've  weathered  the 
worst  of  it,  so  it's  time  for  me  to  speak. 

"Hasanyofyouawife?  Then  go  back  to  her.  Have 
you  kids?  Then  go  back  to  'em.  Have  you  a  fadier 
or  a  mother?  Then  for  God's  sake  let  them  know  that 
you're  doin'  well.  Go  to  'em-^rite  to  em-call  em 
up  on  the  'phone-send  'em  a  telegraph— but  Jont  let 
'em  be  without  the  peace  o'  mind  that  '11  come  from 
knowin'  that  you're  on  your  two  feet.  One  of  the  most 
mysterious  things  in  this  awful  mysterious  hfe  is  the  way 
somebody  is  always  lovin'  somebody.  Here  in  these  two 
rooms  is  a  hundred  and  sixty-three  by  actual  count  of  the 
wediest  and  most  gol-damed  boobs  that  the  country  can 
turn  out.  As  we  look  at  each  other  we  can  t  help  askin 
if  any  one  in  their  tarnation  senses  could  care  for  the 
is8 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

foSTui  t!l'  ■^'^  ^"  '°'r"y  "°°™»'  ""^  of  •»  you  can 
foot  up  to  eight  or  ten  that  '11  have  lu  in  th«r  hLZ 

a.  if  we  wa.  gold-headed  cherub^  '  •"'"'  " 

,-j  /^'.  ^J''.  I?  *'"  y°"  •omethin-  confidential  like 

nim  to  learn  Hes  ready  to  command  a  atmy  or  to 
TevenTf  ''""•  ^"*  *'"'*  °"«  *»>'"«  I'"  ^  Ranged 
tnats  love.  I  ve  thought  about  it  and  thought  about 
.t-and  It  gets  me  every  time.  1  don't  know  what  itT. 
or  where  .t  comes  from,  or  how  they  brew  the^dV™^^' 
thmg  m  hearts  like  yours  and  mine.  All!  know  1  Sat 
.t .  ther^and  that  this  old  world  goes  rou„d"^V  I'm 
bu  t.n' into  it  all  the  time,  and  it  S  o' tu^s  me    hy 

mak^'me'^hok  '    iTl'  "  "  '""  °'  «  ^''^  ^^^^^ 
co^e^^hfrS!..?;-- 

.hmy  with  «  when  you  know  how  to  see  it-    But  I'll 
not  say  no  more.    You'd  laff.    You're  laffln'  ,♦ 
»d  I  don't  bUme  you.    All  I've  wa^Jdlo"  do  iHoT^ 
some  of  you  boys  wise      If  th,^'.  .  ui  *^  * 

J-ows  any  oneJinX  wJ^lftW;  fonTThrm-thJ: 
Iwniht?''  ^"  -^'^  '^""  ^'^  '^  «  -  'a- 
^d  so  I  did  it.  Before  going  to  bed  I  wrote  a  lone 
letter  to  my  father,  giving  him  such  details  of  my  Wsto^ 
toTow  tT  *ru^""  ="  '  *''-8''t  he  wo.Ir«k^ 
or^r;  f  hmted  that  if  he  or  my  mother  would  cax^ 
for  a  visit  from  me  I  could  go  home  for  a  few  day. 
»S9 


^jT^ 


ILL 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 


Then  1  wtited. 

In  a  i»wk  I  tot  my  nidy.    It  read: 

Mt  »ia»  F«Aint,— I  tm  glaa  to  receive  your  letter,  b« 
JSLthuit  ehouirever  h.ve  been  nece-ary  for  you  to  wnte 
jr^M  you  ihould  be  doing  weU  no  one  could  be  mote  th»nk- 
M  for  than  1.  I  have  pven  your  mcewpe  to  your  mother. 
SKl.hewuheimetOienJyoufcerlove.  » «?»••<»"  ""y^ 
to  add,  however,  that  no  mettatn  can  withdraw  the  iWoM 
vou  have  thruit  mto  her  heart— and  mme. 
yni  WT.  ««  y^^  affectionate  father. 

Edwasb  Miuinnr.  . 


Il  J 


CHAPTER  Xin 
AFTER  that  my  work  took  m.  to  Atlantic  Cky, 

^th  Repn.  Barry,  each  of  which,  with  one  exception, 
took  me  by  aurpiite. 

ttrongly  to  come  with  him  to  call  on  Mr..  Bany  and  her 
daughter  that  in  the  end  I  yielded. 

I  found  Mn.  Barty  a  charming  invalid  lady,  keeping 
to  the  background  and  allowing  her  daughter  to  take  aU 

the  reflex  action  of  their  liking  for  Jack.  Mr..  Bamr 
had  .een  him  only  once  but  had  pre.erved  the  mer.,oIJ 
ofthe  pleasure  which  the  meeting  had  given  her.    She 

that  .he  thought  Jack  dilFerent  from  other  men.  Perl 
hap,  he  was,  though  I  could  never  see  it.  Perhap.  .he 
thought  I  wa..  myself,  though  she  didn't  say  «,  t^Zrll 

dbLTLT'  *?'  "'•  ^«  fo"°''««  by  an  invitation  to 
dmner.  and  not  long  after  that  Amiette  placed  me  next 

•o  dia  Cantyre  when  he  msisted  on  my  joining  a  pany 
he  gave  at  a  theater.  Two  or  th«e  other  meedngs  we,^ 
acadental.  and  If  I  say  that  in  all  of  them  Miss  Barxy 
henelf  made  the  advances  it  is  only  to  emphasize  ^ 
nervousness.    I  had  no  right  to  be  meeting  her;   I  had 

Aat-weU,  that  the  didn't  dislike  me.    The  revolver 
i6i 


11 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 
WM  ttill  in  my  detk  and  I  b«tM»  to  aA  myielf  if  it  wWt 
my  duty  to  m«ke  um  of  it.    True,  ihe  had  not  acci-ied 
me  with  her  eye*,  but  the  waa  in  aome  waya  dome  worae. 
What  waa  to  be  the  end  of  it  f 

I  welcomed  the  work  at  Atlantic  City,  then,  for  more 
reaaona  than  one.  It  took  me  away  from  New  York; 
it  kept  me  out  of  danger.  Cantyre  havmg  confided  to 
me  the  fact  that  hia  hopea  were  not  dead,  it  left  the  field 
free  to  him.  Never  for  a  moment  did  he  auipect  that  m 
my  heart  there  waa  anything  that  could  interfere  with 
him;  nor  did  he  go  much  at  dream  that  in  hera  •  •  • 

It  is  curioui  that  in  proportion  as  the  craving  for  dnnk 
diminished  its  place  waa  taken  by  another  craving  for 
what  I  knew  I  couldn't  have.  There  was  every  reason 
why  I  couldn't  have  it,  why  I  could  never  have  it.  Atlai- 
tic  City  offered  me,  therefore,  the  readiest  meana  of  flight. 

When  that  should  be  over  I  was  planning  a  still  further 
retirement.  Srerling  Barry  was  in  California,  directing 
the  first  stages  of  the  erection  of  a  block  of  university 
buildings  in  which  he  took  great  pride.  Coningsby  him- 
self had  suggested  that  when  the  Atlantic  City  job  was 
finished  there  would  be  an  opening  for  me  there  if  I 
cared  to  make  a  bid  for  it.  I  did  so  care,  and  he  prom- 
ised to  speak  for  me.  Once  I  reached  the  Pacific,  I  was 
resolved  not  to  come  back  for  years,  and  perhaps  never 
to  come  back  at  all.  „    .    r     j 

It  is  lucky  for  me  that  I  am  temperamentally  indmed 
to  look  forward.  The  retrospective  view  in  my  case 
would  very  soon  have  led  me  back  to  Greeley  s  Slip,  but 
I  was  rarely  inclined  to  dwell  on  it.  Once  when  I  was 
crossing  the  Atlantic  as  a  smaU  boy  our  steamer  had 
run  on  the  rock*  at  Cape  Gear.  To  enable  us  to  get  off 
her  before  she  slipped  back  into  the  water  and  went  down, 
i62 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

dS?  ?n'!r  '**''*?•  **"  l^**"  *"  "•  '«»»  ^  top  of  the 
d^and  up  them  we  had  to  cUmb.    Thi.  *    did  in  . 

my  mother  and  ...ter.  would  hardly  have  had  tJ,.  n    vr 

™n.  «/*'*"*•  "^ ".  "••-  *'"y  «'"'«•  •«  th-  -  - 

Sut  fe"a°  """*•  •"••  "  "'"''*  ^~''  *•>-  «-      -    - 

«ot  to  look  ahead  of  the  day.  and  at  Atla,,...  (Jit.  ll 
day.,  even  m  November,  were  bearable  enou«I,.      I    ' 

t^M     7'"y^''""f«».'»«noiy;    they  dulled  pain.    „ 

wail  of  thlT  ^-''^  ""•'^  T  '°  ^°'^  »•  the  piecing 
wad  of  the  bagpipe,  mete,  the  Highlander  to  fight.    I 

hthr'rT    J  ^"""uf'""  """  '  '^  of  timelLne... 
In  their  roll  and  tumble  and  cra.h  I  could  hear  the 

b^akM"'"  '*"""'"  '■"  '''"■^''  "«»«  P«  the  «,L  of 
breaker,  forever  mto  .peech. 

Sir  X?h«' •r*"'"'*;  ""'*  ^  ""  "8"  ~  have  it 
thr«  w;r  ""ttered  to  me;   but  the  sen.e  that 

there  wa.  a  gay  compan.on.hip  in  the  world  from  which 
I  wa.  excluded  got  .lightly  on  my  nerve,.  Cantyre  who 
came  down  to  spend  a  weekend  with  me  whenev  .  h^ 

wa.  both  wmdy  and  foggy,  with  a  da.h  of  drizzle  in  the 

the  half-finished  buildmg  I  rtood  for  a  minute  to  get  the 

puff,  of  wet  wind  m  my  face.    The  light,  along  the  Board 

163 


'■   <i 


i 


I 


t 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

Walk  were  reflected  on  the  wet  plankt  a«  in  a  blurred 
mirror.  Here  and  there  a  pedestrian  beat  hi»  way  agauwt 
the  wind,  and  an  occawonal  rolling-chair— the  jinrikitha 
of  Atlantic  City— disappeared  into  the  aureole  of  the 

sea-front. 

As  I  came  down  our  rickety  temporary  steps  I  became 
aware  that  a  woman's  figure  darted  out  of  the  shelter 
of  a  pavilion  on  the  shore  edge  and  walked  rapidly  across 
toward  me.  She  wore  an  ulster  and  a  tam-o'-shanter  cap, 
and  made  a  gallant  little  figure  in  the  wind.  More  than 
that  I  did  not  take  time  to  notice,  as  I  had  no  suspiaoB 
that  she  could  have  anything  to  do  with  me. 

I  was,  in  fact,  turning  southward  toward  the  house 
where  I  was  staying  when  she  managed  to  beat  her  way 
in  front  of  me. 

"Don't  you  know  me?" 

I  stopped  in  astonishment. 

«)Vhy— why,  what  are  you  doing  here?" 

"I  was  waiting  for  you."  ^ 

I  could  think  of  nothing  better  to  say  than.  On  am 
evening  like  this?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind  that.  We  arrived  only  thu  after- 
noon. You  see,  my  father  can't  get  back  from  CaUfoi^ 
nia,  and  mother  wouldn't  spend  Christmas  in  town. 
We're  not  going  to  have  any  Christmas,  and  so—" 

We  struggled  across  the  walk  to  the  pavilion,  which, 
though  open  on  all  sides,  aSbrded  at  least  an  overhead 
protection. 

"How  did  you  know  where  to  find  me?^    I  asked, 

stupidly.  , 

"Ralph  Coningsby  told  me— and  the  time  you  would 
be  coming  out.    I— I've  something— «»niething  rather 
special  to— to  say  to  you." 
i6* 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

I  atood  looking  down  at  her.  In  the  wooden  ceiling 
above  our  headt  there  waa  an  electric  light  that  ihed 
itt  beami  through  the  whiri  of  min  right  into  her  upturned 
face.  There  wa*  a  piteoua  quiver  in  the  tcariet  lipt,  and 
to  the  eyes  had  returned  that  mingling  of  companion 
and  amazement  with  which  she  had  watched  me  when  I 
pulled  out  her  trinket*  and  threw  them  on  the  deik.  It 
waa  the  fint  time  I  had  seen  it  since  that  night. 

Aa  I  look  back  we  seem  to  have  gazed  at  each  other 
m  this  way  for  an  immeasurably  long  while,  but  I  sup- 
pose  it  was  only  for  some  seconds.  I  knew  why  she  waa 
there.  The  truth  had  dawned  on  her  at  last,  and  she  had 
come  to  tell  me  it  wouldn't  make  any  difference. 

But  it  would. 

I  had  left  the  revolver  in  my  desk  in  town;  but  I  n- 
mmded  myself  that  there  was  a  train  between  eight  and 
nine  and  that  I  should  have  plenty  of  time  to  catch  it. 


CHAPTER  XJF 


11  I 


m 


FOR  my  own  sake,  rather  than  for  Regina  Barr/«,  I 
made  an  effort  to  escape  from  the  pitiless  pavilion 
light  overhead. 

"You'll  need  to  go  back  to  your  hotel.  Sha'n't  we 
walk  along?    Then  you  can  tell  me  as  we  go." 

The  tramp  through  the  gale  and  spray  would  have 
been  exhilarating  were  it  not  that  confidential  things  had 
to  be  thrown  out  into  the  tempest.  As  we  left  the 
pavilion,  however,  a  voice  floated  toward  me  from  the 
semi-darkness. 

"Chair,  boss?" 

Another  minute  and  we  were  seated  side  by  side  in  the 
odd  little  vehicle — something  between  a  baby's  perambu- 
lator and  a  touring-car — ^with  the  leather  curtains  but- 
toned to  protect  us,  and  a  view  through  the  wind-shield 
of  a  long  line  of  lights  shining  into  fog.  There  was  a 
minute  of  surprise  in  the  fact  that,  involuntarily  expecting 
to  go  at  a  heightened  speed,  we  found  ourselves  literally 
creeping  at  the  snail's  pace  which  was  the  customary  gait 
of  our  pusher. 

But  that  was  only  subconscious.  I  took  note  of  it  with- 
out taking  note  of  it,  to  remember  it  when  I  pieced  the 
circumstances  together  on  returning  home.  The  one  thing 
of  which  I  was  really  aware  was  that  in  this  curious  con- 
veyance I  v.as  seated  at  her  side,  and  able,  as  she  sat 
half  turned  toward  me,  to  look  her  in  the  eyes. 

Now  that  we  were  there,  she  lost  some  of  her  self- 
i66 


THE   CITY  OF  COMRADES 

P««eMion.    After  the  month,  in  which  I  had  been  afiaid 
of  her  she  seemed  suddenly  to  have  become  afraid  of  me 

2:St"/aXr  ""  -"•"  °'  *'  ="-  "^'^ 

tell  you  »''  "'"''  ""'  '^'-     ^^'  "'«•  »°™«  °«e  ought  to 

befoJ?.'  •''''  '  "'?'  ",'y-^'"'  "^"y  °f  »  «=WId  confessing 

oTlmZr  '•°'"''  ''"-  --'  '-^  «^'  ^^  ^  "  l^i 
I  w//'"^  rr  '!'"^-'  '=■'''"'  '"■*  •>«'  «  cross-purposes, 
ing  my  conviction  of  what  it  was  to  be. 

It  s  very  kind  of  Mrs.  Barry,"  I  began,  vaguely 
You  see   she  hkes  you,"  she  broke  in,  impulSdy 
If  you  had  any  one  belonging  to  you  in  this  coS 

JrC"  t^    ^"  '^^''  ="^"»y  '""«n„l.  mother^ 
and  when  Annette  told  her—"  mooier  is. 

"What  did  Annette  tell  her?" 

shIS^k''  t    ^^'  ^'-  ^'"""-y'  I'-"  »°  «o"y  that  I 
should  be  the  one  to  bring  the  news." 

If  Its  bad  news,"  I  said,  encouragingly,  "I'd  rather 

i^"  to  share  it  with  me  than  a'ny'.^;  else  '^^t. 

hom^lSw"'"""^'  ""''"  ^°"  "'""  »"^'""'«  '-- 

?o  sLrm^heTd.""  ""^"*  """'•    ^"  '  ^"•^  "o  -» 

to  'iStf  t7ytu.>"''  *'''"*''*•    ^'  *°"  »«'  *»«  <"^« 
167 


Is 

(i 


T 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

In  my  excitement  I  clutched  her  by  the  hand,  but  I 
think  she  was  hardly  aware  of  the  act  any  mote  than  L 
"But  what  is  it?" 
"It's— it's  about  your  father." 
"He's  not— he's  not— dead?" 

She  fell  back  again  into  her  comer  of  the  chair,  with- 
drawing her  hand.  I,  too,  fell  back  into  my  comer,  staring 
out  through  the  wind-shield.  Knowing  that  by  not  say- 
ing no  she  was  really  saying  yes,  I  was  obliged  not  only 
to  get  possession  of  the  fact,  but  to  control  my  sense 
of  it. 

I  may  say  at  once  that  it  was  the  first  sudden  shock 
of  my  life.  Every  other  trial  had  come  to  me  by  degrees 
— I  had  mote  or  less  seen  it  on  the  wa>  and  had  been 
ready  to  meft  it.  This  was  something  I  had  hardly  ever 
thought  of.  iTiat  it  might  happen  some  time  had  been 
vaguely  in  the  back  of  my  mind,  of  course;  but  I  had 
never  considered  it  as  an  event  of  the  day  and  hour. 
Now  that  it  had  occurred,  my  mental  heaven*  seemed  to 
fall. 

I  have  told  you  so  little  of  my  family  life  that  you  hard- 
ly realize  the  degree  to  which  my  father  was  its  ceiiter 
and  support.  My  memory  cannot  go  back  to  the  time 
when  he  was  not  an  important  man,  not  only  in  the  esti- 
mation of  his  children,  but  in  that  of  the  entire  country. 
One  of  the  youngest  of  that  group  of  men  who  in  the 
'sixties  and  'seventies  took  the  scattered  colonies  of  Great 
Britain  lying  north  of  the  border  of  the  United  States 
and  welded  them  into  a  gigantic,  prosperous  whole,  he 
had  outlived  all  but  the  sturdiest  of  his  contemporaries 
With  Macdonald,  Mount  Stephen,  Strathcona  and  a  few 
others  he  had  had  the  vision  of  a  new  white  man's  empire 
stretching  from  the  Atlantic  to  the  Pacific  and  from  the 
i68 


THE   CITY  OF  COMRADES 

era  he  had  never  1«  .t  go.    That  there  were  evil  time,  m 
well  a,  good  ones  is  a  matter  of  history;  but  howeveTdarIt 

for  ,Tc:";7  '"'"'■  "'1°"'  °^^^-  wh^rveHon 
for  a  fraction  of  an  mstant  hi»  belief  in  ultimate  success 

In  helpmg  to  build  up  the  vast  financial  system  of  the 

or^'el  "t  """'""^  *''""  ""  "°  <'~^.  -  Europe 
hi  J^      \''''r  """"y  ™"'''  t'*'  borrowed  at  wh^c^ 

iJt  r  l""''-  /t"'  "^"  '^»y''  -''-  the  proTp  « 
was  so  hopeless  and  the  treasury  so  empty  that  he  wm 
oW.g«l  to  pledge  everything  he  possess^,  „d  afte' 
Aat  to  use  nothmg  but  his  honor  and  his  iame     Se 

wona.  Me  had  begun  to  reap  his  reward  ii«i-  ,. 
my  memory  of  him  opens.  Of  L  dayTof  struggle  1 
knew  only  by  hearsay.  By  the  time  I  was  five  he  waa 
ouTthe  r"  "'T"'""'''''  '^"'*'''  honored  through 

^etht^^'rc'  T^t  '"  """^  «"'''■"'  -«»  °-  of 
«ie  eight  or  ten  Canadian  baronets  created  by  the  Oueen 

cut  cTeanV       f  '""''  =""'  "''^°'«"^'  -'h'thin.  d  ": 

S«.  "•**  •         o    ''°™"  "°*  ^^"^  dejection,  but  from 

mean?™  Spartan  in  theirs.    Though  with  our  added 

means  our  manner  of  living  increased  in  dignity,  it  gained 

Sh"     rY  °^''""'y=  ="••  "-y  -"e  th    sSs   o 

wSn™  '"'  '  ^•^"  ''■"''^'  *°  ^"''""^  ^•^  ^°^ 

erilf/i""'"",'*'''  ^^J"  "°  """*  *=«  experimentally,  cov- 
enng  their  tracks  and  returning  to  right  ways  before  their 
digreuions  could  be  noticed.  I  was  invariably  c"ught 
coming  in  for  some  dramaric  moments  with  m^fatft 
^.ch  increased  m  tension  with  the  y.ars.  I  have  oS 
"  169 


I         ,    !: 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

w>ndeRd  what  hit  own  youth  could  have  been  that  ho 
had  »o  little  mercy  on  what  was  at  first  not  much  worse 
than  high  spirits  and  boisterousness.  Though  I  am  far 
from  blaming  any  one  but  myself  for  my  ultimately 
going  wrong,  I  have  sometimes  thought  that  a  gentler 
handling  might  have  led  me  aright  when  sheer  repression 
only  made  me  obstinate.  That  centler  handling  my 
mother  would  have  given  me  had  not  my  father  felt  that 
it  was  weak.  This  knowledge  only  added  to  my  per- 
versity, the  result  being  a  state  of  continuous  rebellion 
on  my  part  and  permanent  displeasure  on  his. 

"You're  getting  in  worse  and  worse  with  the  old  man,' 
my  brother  Jack  warned  me  a  few  months  before  I  left 
Montreal  for  good.    "I  heard  him  telling  mother  that  if 
you  didn't  turn  over  a  new  leaf  he'd  cut  you  out  of  his 

wUL"  ,    , 

The  information  that  he  had  so  cut  me  out  was  the  last 
form  of  appeal  he  ever  made  to  me.  I  didn't  believe 
he  meant  it  otherwise  than  as  a  bluff— a  stroke  of  the 
pen  could  have  reinstated  me;  but  merely  as  a  bluff  it 
angered  me.  It  implied  that  I  might  be  induced  to  do 
for  money  what  I  hadn't  done  for  love  or  duty,  and  I 
was  foolish  enough  to  consider  it  part  of  my  manhood 
to  prove  that  any  one  who  so  judged  me  was  mistaken. 
In  that  phase  of  my  misguided  life  there  was  a  kind  of 
crazy,  Cordelia-like  attempt  to  show  my  father  that  it 
was  not  because  of  his  money  that  I  cared  for  him— or 
•didn't  care  for  him;  but  all  I  succeeded  in  doing  was  to 
rouse  the  resentment  of  a  man  who  had  hardly  ever  been 

defied.  .      ,  ,  ,     , 

But  I  had  repented  of  that  kind  of  bravado  long 
before  I  had    repented   of  anything   else.     My  letter 
to  him   in   October  had  been  quite   sincere.     To   be 
170 


THE   CITY  OF  COMRADES 

eut  out  of  hit  will  had  never  meant  anything  to  me 
but  the  loss  of  hit  affection.  I  was  sony  for  that  lots, 
somer  than  any  words  I  have  could  tell  you.  But  when 
he  wrote  to  me,  in  answer  to  my  October  letter,  I  knew 
from  his  tone  that  I  had  definitely  killed  whatever  had 
once  existed  between  him  and  me,  and  that  all  that  was 
left  for  me  was  to  bury  it.  I  had  been  trjing  to  bury  it 
for  the  past  eight  weeks,  and  I  do  not  deny  that  the  effort 
was  a  bitter  one. 

You  must  understand  that  I  had  now  c«m,e  in  for  a 
set  of  emotions  that  had  not  belonged  to  me  before  I 
went  to  the  Down  and  Out.  I  can  explain  it  only  on  ike 
ground  that  months  of  abstinence  from  anything  that 
could  inHame  the  senses  or  disturb  the  poise  of  the  mind 
had  induced  a  sanity  of  judgment  to  which  I  had  been 
a  stranger.  In  this  new  light  I  was  really  a  prodigal 
son— not  from  any  hope  of  a  ring  on  my  hand  or  the  fatted 
calf,  but  genuinely  from  affection  for  the  parents  I  had 
wronged. 

To  have  this  impulse  to  arise  and  go  to  my  father 
thrown  back  on  itself  was  the  hardest  thing  in  my  ex- 
penence.  Somehow  I  had  kept  the  conviction  that  if 
ever  I  repented  that  door  would  be  open  to  my  retum. 
It  had  not  really  occurred  to  me  that  they  wouldn't  say 

'f  5T\?*  "  ""^^  ^''"  ^  **'°"''l  •»»ke  merry  and  be 
glad.  That  my  brothers  might  refuse  to  join  in  the 
chorus  was  a  possibility.  That  my  sister  might  not  be 
over-enthusiastic  in  doing  so  I  should  be  able  to  under- 
stand.    But  that  my  father  and  mother  .  .  .    Through- 

selt.  Well,  if  I  ve  thrust  a  sword  into  your  hearts,  old 
dears,  you've  jolly  well  thrust  one  into  mine;  and  so 
we're  quits." 

171 


j-  i  !  ■ 


i:.  I 


THECITY  OF  COMRAPES 

"Wlien  did  it  hapf-m?"  wm  the  fiwt  quetdon  I  wm 
•ufficiently  maiter  of  myielf  to  a«k. 

"Annette  heard  yetterday.  I  think  it  wa«  the  day 
befoie." 

"Do  you  know  if— if  he'd  be«>  ill?" 

"He  hatn't  teen  well  for  a  lor.g  time,  Annette  saya— • 
not  for  two  or  three  years;  but  t  -i  end  wa»--well,  it 
was  heart  failure.  He  wa»  in  i!  tnotoi— going  home. 
When  the  car  drove  up  to  the  '  lor  they  found  him—" 

It  was  the  picture  thus  presented  that  made  me  put 
my  hand  to  my  forehead  and  bow  my  head.  I  was  think- 
ing of  him  seated  in  his  comer  of  the  car,  stately,  unbend- 
ing, unpardoning,  dead.  I  was  thinking  of  thf  plight  of 
my  poor  little  mother  when  the  man  she  had  for  to 
many  years  worshiped  and  obeyed  was  no  longer  there  to 
give  her  his  commands.  I  was  thinking  of  the  com- 
motion in  the  family,  of  the  stir  of  interest  throughout 
the  community.  A  prince  and  a  great  man  would  have 
fallen  in  Israel,  and  all  our  Canadian  centers  would  be 
aquiver  with  the  news.  Jerry  and  Jack  would  cable  to 
my  sister  in  England,  as  well  as  to  our  uncles  and  aunts 
in  that  country  and  in  the  United  States.  There  were 
cousins  and  friends  who  wouldn't  be  forgotten.    I  alone 

was  left  out.  , .  .  ,.  t 

That  was,  however,  more  than  I  could  believe.    It 

was  more,  too,  than  I  was  willing  to  allow  Regina  Barry 

to  suppose.  . 

"There  must  be  a  telegram  for  me  at  my  rooms  m  New 

York,"  I  managed  to  stammer,  though  I  fear  my  tone 

lacked  conviction. 
To  this  she  said  nothing.    She  had,  in  fact,  as  Cantyre 

informed  me  later,  already  ascertained  that  up  to  the 

hour  of  her  departure  from  New  York  there  was  none. 
172 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

«pet.t.on  of  the  meager  infonnation  m"..  Barrv  h.d 
rven  me.  though  I  learned  in  addition  tha    tht  Le«1 

aHr«^E^^H°^rttht"S"^''•r^^^^^^^^^^^ 

w  ner  tone  m  .aymg  she  wa«  turpriged  that  I  had  «. 
Ln  omiller::;^:  LTenUot  "  ""  ^'"""'^  ^'--  '  "'«' 

and  made  It  with  some  success  .  .  '  w»  nse, 

I  acquitted  my  mother  and  my  iister  of  any  share  in 

itie'ri icod"  "'•  ""J  r ''"  --  *''"  -"d-« 

4rTei;tt:nV„tit^^ 

under  tha«-  nf  I,-,  .  xt     *'"*'»  ""<•  "»<>  now  come 

-wo^^s-to^-zc;^--^ 

Jei^  in^stt  ^"""^^""y  '"-«"«d.  but  he  would  do  as 
Je^  insisted.  Jerty-who  as  Sir  Gerald  Melbury  would 
now  cut  a  great  swath  as  head  of  the  family-Jer^^  wouM 
be  my  father  over  again.  He  would  be  my  i  Aero;;; 
»73 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

■lain,  only  on  a  Mnaller  icale.  My  father  wat  tyrannical 
by  instinct;  Jeny  would  be  to  by  imitation.  My  father 
believed  hi*  word  to  be  law  because  he  didn't  know  how 
to  do  anything  else;  Jerry  would  believe  hit  word  to  be 
law  in  order  to  be  like  my  father.  My  father  wouldn't 
forgive  me  because  I  had  outraged  his  affections;  Jerry 
wouldn't  forgive  me  because  my  father  hadn't  done  it 
first.  As  far  as  he  could  bring  it  about,  my  future  would 
be  locked  and  sealed  with  my  father's  death,  not  because 
he,  Jerry,  would  be  so  shoclEed  at  my  way  of  life,  but 
because  the  laws  of  the  Medes  and  Persians  alter  not. 

Nothing  remained  for  me,  then,  but  to  grin  and  bear 
it,  and  bide  my  time.  That  I  had  friends  of  my  own  was 
to  me  a  source  of  that  kind  of  consolation  which  is  largely 
pride.  Cantyre  and  the  Coningsbys,  Regina  Barry  and 
her  mother — came  closer  to  me  now  than  any  one  with 
whom  I  had  ties  of  blood.  "Our  relatives,"  George  Sand 
writes  somewhere,  "are  the  friends  given  us  by  Nature; 
our  friends  are  the  relatives  given  us  by  God." 

As  relatives  given  me  by  God  I  regarded  Lovey  and 
Christian  and  Colonel  Straight  and  Pyn  and  Beady 
Lamont  and  all  that  band  of  humble,  helpful  pals  to 
whom  I  was  knit  in  the  bonds  of  the  "robust  love"  which 
was  the  atmosphere  of  brave  old  Walt  Whitman's  City 
of  Friends.  There  was  no  pose  among  them,  nor  con- 
demnation, nor  severity.  Forgiveness  was  exercised 
there  till  seventy  times  seven.  They  forbore  one  another 
in  love,  and  endeavored  to  keep  the  unity  of  the  spirit  in 
the  bond  of  peace  to  a  degree  of  which  Some  One  would 
have  said  that  He  had  not  found  the  like,  no,  not  in 
Israel. 

My  family  were  all  of  Israel,  and  of  the  strictest  sect. 
They  fasted  twke  in  the  week,  so  to  speak;  in  theory,  if 
174 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

not  in  practice,  they  gtve  tithei  of  dl  that  they  po.MM«J ; 
thqr  could  «ncerdy  thank  God  that  they  weVe  ^ 
«.ch  men  a.  compo.«l  the  Down  and  Out;  «,d  yetTw" 
P«c«ely  among  thoae  who  «„ote  their  b«a.t.  Li  A^Wt 

tir.r"^  "  \"  "'J  ""  *'"''  'y"  ""»»  '•«v.n  that  I 
found  the  .y„,pathy  that  raiaed  me  to  my  feet  and  bade 

kept  poor  old  Lovey  near  me.  that  I  took  him  down  to 

ilhi  T  t'l'  "'?  ""'^^  """•  »"«•  ">»<««  Wm  dine 
with  me.  and  told  h.m  of  my  bereavement. 

"NnL   '  """r '  "i'  "''•'  •'"'^"«  »  melancholy  face. 

oSZy"  '  r  '"''T' "'"  *^«y'  "«'«»  h've  been  an 
old.  aged  man,  I  expect." 

I  told  him  my  father's  age. 

Too  bad  you  didn't  know  in  time  for  the  funeral.  Ye'd 
ve  sjt?  ^"t'^  u  '"'*  '^'^  "^-^  ""derground,  wouldn't 
A«  •!  ;  u  "'"  /  r*  '"  '°'"'  «°°''  ''«'«fit  <:l"b,  like, 
that  II  take  care  of  the  expense,  of  burial.    Awful  dear 

chSh;^^'  '  '""■"''  '"'"  ''™'^  »'"  "  P'«  •»  »-e 

rin!?/"  "  ^!l  """r"^  ^r  *•■"  *•"■»  was  the  case  he  con- 
mued:  And  as  for  goin'  off  sudden-well,  it's  awful 
ard  on  relations  when  a  old,  ancient  man  '11  lay  round 

'1  wh  '  .'r"  "•"*".  '•'  *''"^'»  ~">«-    I've  knowS 

2  when  you'd  swear  they  hung  on  a-purpose,  just  to 
P  te  them  as  'ad  to  take  care  of  'em.     I  'ad  ;  grand! 

father  o   me  own-well,  you'd  think  that  old  man  just 

old  thing  when  he  got  silly,  like.  Take  the  pepper,  he 
would  and  pour  t  into  the  molasses-jug.  and  eve^ng 
^  n  ^y^^\f^  •>«  was  for  us  young  ones,  es- 

peaally  one  day  when  he  dressed  all  up  in  'is  Sunday 

m 


MKaoCOfY  HKHUTION  IBT  OMIT 

(ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHABT  No.  2) 


lis 


|2J 


12.2 


12.0 


i 
ii 


1.8 


isij^i^ 


jd 


1653  e«t  Main  StrMt 

RochHtar,  N^m  York        U60S       USA 

(716)  482  -  0300  -  Phon. 

(716)  28a-  5989  -  fm 


7HE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

<]odiet  and  went  out  m  the  (tieet  without  'it  pastt.  I 
don't  tuppoM  yer  guv'iior  ever  did  the  like  o'  thsti 
Slim.  Don't  eeem  m  if  old  peopk  on  due  tide  'ad  them 
playful  waya." 

In  this  lort  of  reminifcence  die  ereniag  went  by,  and 
in  the  momins  I  received  a  note  that  did  much  to  com- 
fort me.  It  waa  no  mote  than  die  convendonal  letter 
of  condolence  from  Mrt.  Barry,  but  it  waa  tactfully 
couched. 

/  "A  loM  like  youn,"  ihe  wrote,  "painful  aa  it  it  at  all 
timet,  becomet  tragically  to  when  the  tupport  one  findt 
in  family  tiet  it  too  far  away  to  luttain  one.  I  have 
often  found  in  my  own  experience  that  lonelinett  added 
a  mote  poignant  element  to  giief.  I  with  you  would 
remember,  dear  Mr.  Melbury,  that  you  have  fiiendt  at 
thia  Christmat-time  quite  near  you.  Run  in  and  tee  nt 
whenever  you  feel  the  need  of  a  friendly  word.  We  are 
leading  a  life  here  abtolutdy  without  engagementt,  and 
you  will  cheer  ui  up  more  than  we  can  cheer  you.  If 
on  Chrittmat  Eve  you  would  care  to  look  in  between  four 
and  five  you  would  find  ut  herc^  and  we  could  pvc  you  a 
cup  of  tea." 

Needleti  to  tay  all  through  the  day  of  Chrittmat  Eve 
my  thoughtt  were  with  the  gathering  in  our  houae  on  the 
dopet  of  Mount  Royal.  I  saw  in  fancy  every  detail  of 
the  lugubrious  pomp  through  which  Christians  contradict 
thrir  Saviour  in  his  affirmation  that  there  is  no  death. 
S<demiiity,  blackness,  muffled  drums,  and  long  lines  of 
men  throwing  awe  into  their  facet — ^would  smite  the  heart 
with  a  sense  of  the  final,  the  irreparable,  the  gone  and  lost. 
Flowers  would  lend  a  timid  touch  of  bri^tness,  but  they 
would  bloom  in  litde  more  than  irony.  The  roll  of  maiqf' 
wheels,  the  tramp  of  many  feet,  and  a  funeral  service  in 
176 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

wUA  die  triumphant  note  kielf  would  be  turned  into  a 
dii|e>  theee  would  be  the  mauive  accompaniment  to  the 
few  aobt  wdling  up  from  hearta  in  which  they  would  be 
mepretiible.  Though  ahut  out  in  penon,  in  ipirit  I  wu 
there,  atanding  in  the  ahrouded  room,  witneating  my 
nwthet'a  fareweU  kisa,  watching  the  lid  placed  on  the 
coffin,  marching  with  my  brothers,  kneeling  in  the  church, 
hearing  the  doda  fall  in  the  grave.  At  the  very  moment 
when  Mra.  Barry  handed  me  a  cup  of  tea  I  waa  saying  to 
myself,  "Now  it  is  all  over,  and  they  are  coming  back  to 
die  darkened,  empty  house." 

I  was  not  cheerful  as  a  companion,  and  appatendy  no 
one  expected  me  to  be  so.  We  can  scarcely  be  said  to 
have  talked;  we  merely  kept  each  other  company.  It 
waa  Miss  Barry  hersdf  who  suggested,  when  we  liad 
finished  tea,  that  she  and  I  ahould  take  a  walk. 

The  weather  had  grown  dear,  bright,  and  windhaa. 
M  along  the  promenade  there  was  Christmas  in  the  shops 
and  in  the  air.  It  was  not  like  any  Christmas  I  had  ever 
known  before,  with  the  blare,  the  l^hts,  the  gay,  homeless 
people,  and  the  thundering  of  breakers  under  starlight; 
but  aome  essential  of  the  andent  festival  was  present 
diere,  and  it  reached  me.  It  reached  me  with  a  yeaning 
to  have  something  bdonging  to  me  that  I  could  daim 
M  my  own— something  to  which  I  should  bdong  and 
that  wouldn't  cast  me  off— something  that  would  love 
me,  something  that  I  should  love,  with  a  love  different 
from  that  with  which  even  the  City  of  Friends  could  sup- 
^y  me. 

But  out  on  the  crowded,  stany  sea-front  we  neither 

walked  nor  talked.    We  sauntered  and  kept  silent.    On 

my  side,  I  had  the  feeling  that  there  was  so  much  to  say 

diat  I  could  «ay  noduag;  on  her^  I  divined  that  tfaeie 

177 


f 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

was  the  same.  I  will  not  affinn  that  in  view  of  all  the 
dtctmutances  I  could  be  anything  but  uneasy;  and  yet 
I  wai  ecstatic.  This  wonderful  creature  was  beside  me, 
comforting  me,  liking  to  be  with  me  I  But  if  ohe  knew 
exactly  who  I  was  .  .  . 

I  was  swept  by  an  intense  longing  that  she  should  be 
t(Jd.  It  was  a  longing  I  was  never  free  from,  though 
it  didn't  often  snze  me  so  imperiously  as  to-night.  It 
seized  mc^  the  more  imperiously  owing  to  the  fact  that  I 
could  see  her  moving  farther  and  farther  away  from  any 
recollection  and  realization  coming  through  herself.  I 
had  hoped  that  both  would  occur  t'  her  without  my  being 
obliged  to  say  in  so  many  words,  '^  am  the  man  who 
tried  a  few  months  ago  to  steal  your  jewelry." 

But  if  ever  the  shadow  of  this  suggestion  crossed  her 
mind,  it  didn't  cross  it  now.  From  the  beginning  the 
face  and  figure  of  that  man  had  been  blurred  behind  the 
memory  of  my  brother  Jack.  Recent  events  had  fixed 
me,  just  as  she  saw  me,  definitely  in  conditions  in  which 
sneak-thieving  is  imimaginable.  I  was  the  son  of  Sir 
Edward  Melbury,  Baronec,  of  Montreal  and  Ottawa,  a 
man  who  would  rank  among  the  notables  of  the  continent. 
Though  a  son  in  disfavor,  I  was  still  a  son,  and  moreover 
I  was  exercising  an  honorable  craft  with  some  credit.  I 
might  propose  to  her,  I  might  marry  her,  I  might  live 
my  whole  life  with  her,  and  the  chances  were  that  she 
would  never  connect  me  with  the  man  she  had  seen  for 
a  few  hurried  minutes  on  pulling  the  rose-colored  hangings 
aside. 

For  this  very  reason  it  seemed  to  me  I  must  tell  her 
before  our  friendship  went  any  further.  It  was  an  ad- 
ditional reason  that  I  began  to  think  that  the  infonna- 
tion  would  >«  a  shock  to  her.  How  I  got  that  impression 
178 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

I  can  acarcdy  tdl  you;  the  way*  in  which  it  wai  coo- 
yesred  to  me  were  so  trifling,  so  infinitesimal. 

For  example,  I  asked  her  one  day  what  she  meant 
by  her  oft-repeated  statement  that  I  was  different  from 
other  men. 

"Our  men,"  she  explained,  promptly,  "have  no  life 
apart  from  their  businesses  and  professions.  Business 
and  profession  are  stamped  all  over  them.  They  are  in 
their  clothes,  their  faces,  the  tones  of  their  voices.  You'd 
know  Ralph  Coningsby  was  an  architect,  and  Stephen 
Cantyre  a  doctor,  and  Rufus  Legrand  a  clergyman,  the 
minute  you  heard  them  speak.  Now  you  wouldn't  know 
what  you  were.  You  might  be  anything  —  anything  a 
gentleman  can  be,  that  is.  I've  heard  some  one  say 
that  Oxford  is  a  town  in  a  university,  and  Cambridge  a 
university  in  a  town.  In  just  the  same  way  my  father, 
for  instance,  is  a  man  in  an  architect.  You're  an  archi- 
tect in  a  man.  With  you  the  man  is  the  bigger.  With 
us  he's  the  smaller.  It  isn't  merely  business  before 
pleasure;  it's  business  before  human  nature;  and  some- 
how I've  a  preference  for  seeing  human  nature  put 
first." 

There  was  little  in  this  to  say  what  I  have  just  hinted 
at.  There  was  barely  sufficient  to  let  me  see  that  she  was 
putring  me  above  most  of  her  men  acquaintances,  in  a 
place  in  which  I  had  no  right  to  be.  Though  it  was  as 
far  as  she  ever  went,  it  was  far  enough  to  create  my 
suspicion  and  to  make  me  feel  that  the  earliest  con- 
fession would  not  come  too  soon. 

When  we  got  down  to  the  less  frequented  end  of  the 

Board  Walk  the  moment  seemed  to  have  arrived.    The 

crowd  had  thinned  out  to  occasional  groups  of  stragglers 

or  lovers  grang  two  and  two.    Only  here  and  there  one 

179 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

came  on  a  fhop;  <»ly  here  and  tIie?B  on  a  hotel.  One 
tot  an  opportunity  to  lee  the  ttan,  and  to  hear  the  ocean 
at  loirething  more  than  a  drumbeat  to  the  blare. 

By  a  timultaneou*  movement  we  pauaed  by  the  raO, 
to  look  down  on  the  dim,  white,  moving  line  of  breakers. 
It  was  one  of  those  instant*  when  between  two  people 
drawn  closely  to  each  other  something  leaps.  Had  there 
been  nothing  imperative  to  keep  u*  apart  I  should  have 
seized  her  in  my  arms;  she  would  have  nestled  there.  I 
had  distinctly  the  knowledge  that  she  would  have  re- 
sponded to  anything — and  that  the  initiative  was  mine. 

As  a  rocket  that  bursts  into  cascades  of  fire  suddenly 
goes  out,  so  suddenly  the  moment  passed,  leaving  us  with 
a  sense  of  coldness,  primarily  due  to  me. 

Somewhat  desperately  I  began:  "Do  you  know  what 
has  made  the  difficulties  between  me  and  my  family?" 

She  was  gazing  off  toward  the  dark  horizon. 

"Vaguely." 

"Do  you  know  that  for  years  I  gave  them  a  great  deal 
of  trouble?" 

"Vaguely." 

"Do  you  know  that—" 

"Do  you  know,"  she  interrupted,  quietly,  "that  I  used 
to  have  a  brother?" 

The  question  so  took  me  by  surprise  that  I  answered, 
blankly,  "No." 

"Yes,  I  had.  He  was  nearly  ten  years  older  than  I, 
'  which  would  make  him  about  your  age.  He  was  —  he 
was  wild." 

"And  is  he — is  he  dead?" 

"He  shot  himself— about  five  yean  ago.  It  was  a  ter- 
iible  story,  and  I  don't  want  to  tell  it  to  you.  I  only 
want  to  say  that  my  mother  feels  that  if— if  father  hadn't 
tSo 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

htm  to  hard  on  him— if  he'd  played  him  along  sendy>— 
he  might  eatily  have  been  raved.  It**  what  Mr.  Chriniaa 
— ^le'i  had  great  experience  in  that  tort  <rf  thing— he 
doei  a  wonderful  work  among  men  that  have  gone  under 
—but  it'»  what  he  uaed  t6  tell  father;  only  father  hadn't 
nearly  to  much  patience  with  hi*  own  son  at  he  would 
have  had  with  lome  one  elie'i,  and  »o—  I  wonder  if 
you  can  understand  that  when  mother  heard  that  you 
had  been— had  been-^well,  a  little  like  my  brother^-" 

"M^o  told  her?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  These  things  get  about,  ''t  might 
have  been  Annette." 

"And  assuming  that  I  was  what  you  call  d,  have 
you  any  idea  how  wild  I  was?" 

Her  response  to  this  was  to  say:  "I  like  a  man  to  have 
■pirit.  The  men  who  always  keep  on  the  safe  side — " 
She  left  this  ttaitiment  there,  to  add,  less  irrelevantly  than 
it  sounded:  "Mother  want*  you  to  come  and  dine  with 
us  to-morrow  evening.  It  will  be  Christmas  Day,  but  we 
sha'n't  keep  it  as  Christmas.  We  don't  have  any  Christ- 
mases  since — since  Tony  died.  We  simply — we  simply 
•ha'n't  be  alone." 

In  the  turn  our  talk  had  taken  there  was  so  much 
human  need  that  I  found  my  efforts  at  confession  para- 
lyaed.  That  a  family  whom  I  had  regarded  as  enviably 
care-free  should  be  living  in  the  shadow  of  a  great  tragedy, 
and  nursing  a  sorrow  in  which  there  was  this  element  of 
temotse,  was  curiously  illuminating  as  a  discovery.  It 
seemed  to  cast  into  other  people's  lives  the  sort  of  sharp 
revealing  ray  that  a  flash  of  li^tnmg  throwa  on  a  dark 
road.  Here  was  a  giil  whom  I  had  thou^t  of  hithetta 
as  immune  from  the  more  sordid  varieties  of  trial;  and 
yet  she  had  at  least  tasted  of  their  cup.  It  gave  me  » 
I8l 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 


:' 


new  concepdcs  of  her.  I  b«gan  to  •»  her  not  at  a  flat 
fucface  or  at  Katie  like  a  portrait,  but  aa  a  living,  pak 
pitadng  human  being  with  duties  round  her  and  a  viita 
of  experience*  aa  background. 

The  immediate  inference  was  that  I  mu«t  asiitt  them 
over  Christmai,  as  they  would  assist  me;  and  to  do  that 
I  must  put  off  telling  Regina  Barry  where  she  had  seen 
me  first. 

To  be  quite  free,  however,  I  had  to  get  a  kind  of  per- 
mission from  Lovey,  My  relations  with  him  had  grown 
to  be  peculiar.  He  seemed  to  develop  two  personalities, 
from  the  one  to  the  other  of  ^ich  he  glided  mors  or  less 
unconsciously.  Though  even  in  our  privacy  he  refused 
any  longer  to  speak  of  us  as  buddies  and  fellas  together, 
he  called  me  Slim  and  sonny,  and  referred  without  hesi- 
tation to  our  fraternal  past.  On  my  part  I  found  it 
almost  consoling,  in  view  of  the  bluff  I  was  putting  up, 
to  have  some  one  near  me  who  knew  me  at  my  worst. 
Where  I  had  to  pretend  before  others  there  was  no  pre- 
tense at  all  with  him;  and  so  I  got  the  relief  that  comes 
at  any  time  when  one  can  drop  one's  mask. 

Here  in  Atlantic  City  I  was  paying  ail  his  expenses, 
but  no  wages.  In  New  York  I  offered  him  nothing  but 
hi*  room.  How  he  lived  I  didn't  always  know,  beyond 
the  fact  that  it  was  honestly.  As  to  this  he  was  so  frank 
that  I  could  have  little  doubt  about  it. 

"There's  many  a  good  thing  I  lets  go  by.  Slim,  all  on 
account  o'  you.  Washin'  windows  ain't  nothink  but  old 
woman's  work  when  a  man's  been  a  'atter.  If  it  wasn't 
to  save  you,  sonny^— " 

"Yes,  I  know,  Lovey.  One  of  these  dajrs  I  may  get 
a  chance  to  make  it  up  to  you." 

'    "Oh,  well,  as  for  makin'  it  up,  so  long  as  you  goes  on 
i8a 


THE  CITY.  OF  COMRADES 

with  the  fincy  you  took  to  me  that  night  at  StiiHoii'iL 
like—" 

"Oh,  I  do.    Youteethat,  don't  you?" 

"Yet;  I  lee  it  right  enough,  Slim.  It  kind  o'  pane* 
the  buck  oa  me,  aa  you,  might  aay.  But  therel  Lord 
love  ye,  I  don't  complain!  Ye're  a  fine  young  feUa,  and 
What  I  doei  for  you— jelf-denial  ye  might  call  it— I  don't 
grudge.  When  I  tee*  ye  goin'  round  like  a  »weU  with 
other  swell*  I  ju»t  *ay*  to  myself,  'Lovey,  that'*  your 
work,  old  top';  and  I  feel*  kind  o'  satisfied," 

It  wa»  kind  o'  satisfied  that  he  showed  himself  when  I 
told  him  I  had  been  asked  to  eat  my  Christma*  dinner 
with  Mrs.  and  Miss  Barry. 

"Ain't  that  grand  I"  he  commented,  exultingly.  "Ye'U 
put  on  them  swell  togs — " 

"?"*j".'""  ''"^'  ^°^  *'°'*'  ^^^•"  I  reminded  him. 
Lord  love  ye,  Slim,  I  don't  mind  that!    What'* 
Oinstmas  to  me?    I  don't  pay  no  attention  to  all  that 
Mohshness— except  the  plum  puddin'." 

I  felt  it  right  to  throw  out  a  warning. 

"In  your  dining-room,  Lovey,  with  aU  the  chauffeurs, 
there  U  be  things  to  drink,  very  likely." 

He  put  on  his  melancholy  face. 

"It  won't  make  no  difference  to  me,  Slim.  The  Down 
and  Out  has  got  me  bound  by  so  many  promises,  like, 
that  I  can  t  take  a  sip  o'  nothink,  not  no  more  than  a  dead 
man  that's  got  a  bottle  in  'is  coffin.  I'm  one  that  can 
take  it  or  leave  it,  as  I  feel  inclined." 

"If  you're  going  to  try  taking  it  or  leaving  it  to-mor- 
row  I  sha  n't  accept  Mrs.  Barry's  invitation  to  dinner." 

The  effect  was  what  I  had  expected. 

"You  go  to  the  dinner.  Slim,  my  boy,  and  I'll  let  you 
•ee  me  ittin*  the  'ay  before  you  starts." 
183 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 
"But  yoB  could  hh  tht  htjr  tna  t« «»«  of  W  •«•«>." 
"No;  be;.u«  I'U  mike  you  Jock  the  door.    I  tmt 
•.Min'  to  '«ve  ye  'vn  no  huniecy  on  my  iccount. 

Sowe  tettled  it-not  that  I  wii  to  lock  him  m,  but 
A«t  he  WM  to  guarantee  me  .fMnn  being  mxiouf;  and 
I  fuppoee  Chrirtianirould  tay  that  another  bit  of  victoty 

waa  icored. 


II   ill 


CHAPTER  Xr 

A  FEW  dayi  later  I  learned  that  my  hther  had  «ital>> 
J~y  luhed  a  imaU  tnut  fund  for  my  benefit,  and  that 
tte  mcome  wat  to  be  paid  to  me  qua-teriy.  He  had 
thui,  after  all,  recognized  me  aa  hi*  aon,  though  not  oo 
the  footing  of  hi*  other  aoni.  Each  of  hia  other  aooa 
would  have—  But  I  won't  go  into  that  It  ia  enough 
to  lay  that  for  every  doUar  I  should  receive  Jerry  and 
Jack  would  have  twenty  or  thirty,  and  ao  would  n:y 
aiateri.  Even  in  my  mother's  life  inteiest  I  was  not 
to  have  a  share  when  she  no  longer  needed  it 

Among  the  many  sins  I  have  to  confess,  that  of  being 
•peoally  mercenary  is  not  one.  I  make  this  affirmation 
m  order  that  you  may  not  condemn  me  too  severely  when 
I  say  that  for  days  I  labored  under  a  sense  of  outrage. 
Mine  was  the  sute  of  mind  common  among  evil-doera 
who  object  to  paying  the  penalty  of  which  thej'  have  had 
fair  warning.  My  father  had  told  me  with  his  own 
mouth  that  on  account  of  certain  ind;dgences  which  I 
had  refused  to  give  up  he  had  cut  me  6B  altogether.  I 
had  chosen  to  take  my  own  way  and  to  brave  the  conse- 
quences;  and  now  when  the  latter  pr  -ed  to  be  not  so 
bada*  I  had  been  bidden  to  expect  I  was  indignant 
jj^^l  '"'°"**^  Andrew  Christian  of  the  bequest  I 
added  that  I  had  practicaUy  made  up  my  mind  to  refuse 
«t.  He  gave  me  that  look  which  always  seemed  about  to 
teU  you  a  good  joke. 
U  185 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

"Why  do  you  think  he  left  you  anything)" 
"I  euppoee  he  wanted  to  feel  that  if  the  wone  came 
to  the  wont  I  shouldn't  be  quite  pennilcM." 
"But  why  should  he  want  to  feel  that?" 
"Well,  hang  it  all,  air,  when  everything  it  taid  and 
done  I  was  hit  toni"        < 
"You  were  hii  ion,  and  he— he  cared  for  you." 
"He  cared  for  me  to— to  that  extent." 
"And  coniidering  your  attitude  toward  him,  could 
you  expect  him  to  care  for  you  more?" 
I  iaid,  unwillingly,  "No,  I  tuppow  not." 
"Could  you  expect  him  to  care  for  you  at  much?" 
"I— I'd  given  up  thinking  he  cared  for  me  at  all." 
"And  this  shows  he  did.    In  spite  of  all  you  made  him 
suffer— and,  what  was  probably  worse  in  his  eyes,  made 
your  mother  suffer- he  loved  you  still.    I  know  you're 
not  thinking  of  the  money,  Frank." 
"No,  I'm  not;  and  that's  perfectly  sincere." 
"You're  thinking  of  his  affection  for  you}   and  now 
you're  assured  of  it.    The  amount  of  money  he  left  you 
is  secondary.    That,  and  the  way  in  which  he  left  it  to 
you,  were  determined  by  something  else." 
I  looked  at  him  hard  as  I  said,  "And  what  was  that?" 
His  look  as  he  answered  me  was  frank,  straight,  and 
fearless. 

"The  fact  that  he  didn't  trust  you."  I  suppose  he 
must  have  seen  how  I  winced,  for  he  went  on  at  once: 
"That's  about  the  bitterest  pill  fellows  like  us  have  to 
swallow.  In  addition  to  everything  else  that  we  bring 
on  ourselves  we  forfeit  other  people's  confidence.  There's 
the  nigger  in  the  woodpile,  even  when  we  buck  up.  Your 
father  was  fwid  of  you,  Frank;  but  he  was  afraid  that 
if  he  did  for  you  all  he  would  have  done  if  you'd  gone 
l86 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 
•»M*tk  would  only  iena  you  to  the  deviL    Doa't  yoa 

th«  fdlT*  "^  ■•  *^  "  ««»  reluctance  I  .dnmt«l 
"It  takef  ye.«,  Frank,  old  boy.  for  men  who've  been 
where  you  and  I  have  been  to  build  up  a  life  which  givee 
•  leajonable  prom.«  of  making  r>od.  In  «ven  or  eight 
month,  you  ve  done  .plendidly.    I  don't  know  that  weV. 

It  t  the  club  that's  been  game." 

rve.  lUiaythatforjou.  Only  don't  imagine  for  a 
moment  that  your  fight  ia  over." 

"Oh  no,  lir;  I  don't." 

"It'a  perfectly  true  that  if  you  retiit  the  devU  wiU 
tt«  from  you;  but  he  can  ihow  a  marvelou.  power  of 
«o.nii^^  back.  Some  of  your  toughen  tuulet  lie  ahead. 
Wow  I  ni  only  reminding  you  of  that  to  show  you  that 
your  father  ha.  perhap,  done  the  very  wi.e.t  thing  for 
you.  A  lanje  part  of  your  .afety  lie.  in  the  necSaity 
for  your  workmg.  If  you  weren't  ab.olutely  obUged  to 
do  «  m  order  to  live  like  a  re.pectable  man  the^^no 

?in§  et.Vt."   """"^  *"""""""•  '^  "^ 
I  nodded  slowly. 

••n'**  t'\  ^^}^  y""  '*"'  pointing  «  out  to  me." 

But,  Frank,  old  fellow,  that',  not  the  chief  thing  I 

w«,  you  to  «e.    What  will  give  you  more  .ati.fa^on 

than  anythmg  elM  ,.  the  knowledge  that  what  ha.  been 

.n  u-^?"  ^V  '^"  '^°"'  ^  'o'^'-    Your  father  ha. 

Accept  th..  g,ft  graciously.    Enjoy  it  and  nake  the  be« 
«it.    Your  hfe  with  hunira't  ova." 
187 


<M 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

My  txpmmaa  muK  have  been  one  of  inquirjr,  becaun 
lie  WMrt  on: 

"One  of  the  tublimett  and  truert  thingt  that  ever  feU 
from  a  pen  i»  thi»,  'Love  ia  of  God;  and  every  one  that 
ktveth  ia  bom  of  God,  and  knoweth  God.'  It'a  ahnott  a 
•tactling  thing  to  realize  that  by  the  aheer  act  of  love 
Wee  ions  of  God  and  know  Him." 

"Ah,  but  what  kind  of  love?"  I  aiked,  with  tome 
incredulity. 

"Are  there  more  kind*  than  one?  The  kmgdom  of 
love  is  like  that  of  minerals  or  that  of  vegetation— one  in 
essence,  though  multiform  in  manifestation.  Just  as  one 
will  give  us  coal  and  diamonds  with  much  the  same  in- 
gredients, and  another  the  strawberry,  the  rose,  and  the 
apple-tree,  all  closely  akin,  so  love  shows  itself  in  a 
million  ways,  and  yet  ranains  always  love." 

"And  would  you  say  that  the  love  of  parents  and  chil- 
dren, the  love  of  husbands  and  wives,  the  love  of  sweet- 
hearts, and  the  love  of  God — " 

"—are  all  fundamentally  related?  Yes,  I  would.  I 
can't  understand  love  in  any  other  sense,  if  it's  to  be  real 
love.  Do  you  remember  how  often  we've  talked  of  the 
spirit  there  is  in  the  world  that  throws  dust  into  our 
eyes  by  creating  distinctions  and  confusions  where  neither 
confusion  nor  distinction  exists  ?  Well,  the  same  evil  imp 
is  forever  at  work  to  stultify  love  by  trying  to  take  the 
meaning  from  the  word.  And  when  it  has  stultified  love 
it  has  stultified  God,  since  the  one  is  identical  with  the 
other." 

I  became  argumentative. 

"But  if  all  love  is  identical  widi  God,  how  do  you 
account  for  what  would  commonly  be  called  a  wnmg 


THE  CITTJil^  COMRADES 

•TW.no  ««A  thing  «,  wrong  lore.    Men  « 
wwn*  «d  women  «•  wn«g,  and  they  treat  k.v  w«»-. 

«««himade  We«  love  »nd  p..«on;   buti?^ 
ao«*rb  maie  rt.    One  of  the^  day.  well  take  di 

th^-that  there  t  only  one  love  a.  there',  only  one  God 
«d  «'.  only  by  undemanding  the  unity  of  b<^h  "hat  wi 

He  that  dweUeth  in  love  dwelleth  in  God.'    YoTtZ 

hZ^Z^^^v'  *^"*J?"*  '••  '""^  "•'y  "y  kind  of 
k)ve-rem«nber  I'm  .peaJting  of  love,  not  of  phywcal 

«y  kn,d  of  love  .hould  work  wonden."    He  a.ked.  ,Z 

^r  diSr  """  """•"  *°  ^"  '--^-  -~  yo" 

«i::u'ii  J:tn„r '  •-'"'*  --'^ '  •-«  '-» 

your  mother  ^e  that,  *,  far  f«m.  feeling  wre  over  tb. 
rT^"^  your  father-,  will,  you  take  it  in  T^ 

^  .uipnae  of  their  young  live.  you'U  be  doing  it."  He 
«^myhandandp„.^it.  "Goodly  „::f<Ja  chap! 
Ive^  to  go  ««1  .ee  Momma  about  the  meaU  for  ^ 

P.?l!!!^  on  to  d»  kitchen,  where  a  Greek  n»ned 

Z^T' .  •»"  •«•  '«ft  «ne  with  a  new  outlook. 
J-oUowng  ha  imtnictioo.,  I  began  abnon  imnudiately 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

togetfomeoftherewardliepiwiriMdme.  My  mother 
wrote  to  me  whm  a  week,  timidly  but  t»deriy.  and  mA 
joy  at  bemg  m  touch  with  me  again.  A  few  weeks  Uter 
my  ..«er  wrote,  affectionately,  if  with  reaerve.  When  my 
birthday  came  in  March,  and  I  was  thitty^o.  I  had 
miall  presents  from  them  both,  and  from  my  two  sinew- 
m-Iaw  as  well  I  noticed  that;dl  tattew,  ww  ftwn  my 
mother,  were  hesitatin^y  r  wiHwit,  |iM|%^Bmethiiig 
hke  an  undertone  of  awe.    '"rfJlir.  VmLf"^  ^^ 

that  I  had  put  an  abyw  liilwiii  ii|g|Mi| 
that  in  the  effort  to.tMiMi>»«M|MNwi»«,ii^M|^ 
the  superaaturaL    It  **r«»i8|«^«Kli|»«|2ii^  ^ 

th«n,  "This,  thy  hmimimmmkmiitkmr^ 

and  they  were 8^:-^,x.....   ,J^^    1  ||firt|„  |j|^  - 

Mary  and  Mattha  miiK^*.,*,  known  whenLaianaw 

back  to  the  hmmmMt^kmV' 

Butthat  was  not  my  oalr  ifwirf,  Aough  of  what  f 
recoved  m  adJ«,on  I  fia«Mlia<to«Wll  you.    Inde«!. 
I  should  make  no  mmm «•  arilfW^  all  were  it  no. 
to  essenoal  to  thi»«B*»D|rt.i#rfiib„an  life.    All  1 1 
want  to  say  i«  th»«i»h»» -Mmt  a 1 1 1    i    _.  .. 
*;^  _».-  L  •      _S  "■"V^'""***"'  "w  "  »  new  revda- 
tion  which  M  nilMHr^  MMH^IatT  t,^  ^  l 

,  .         ' »'^  ■••■J"  "■y  'act  to  you — that 

by  the  simple  process  of  lovine  I  could  dwell  in  God,  I 
could  be  aware  that  God  waiPlU  immd  me.  I 

1  mean  that  once  I  vx,immt*nkmt  love  was  God  the 
great  mystery  that  had  notiHtm^mmma  my  Ufe  was 
«.lved.    All  my  life  I  had  btimmttmi  by  the  outi/ 
tions:   Who  is  God?    What  i,ifio4«  IJWhat  is  my  rela- 
tion to  Hu„-.,r  have  I  any?    Andnowlseemedtohave 
found  the  answer.    W1,«J^  Mtk=toJove-the  com- 
"lon,  natural  love  for  m,  ftrtw^fjlii^,  and  sisters-.! 
when  I  got  back  to  fedii|,w^gently  towaiti  my  brothersl 
-1  began  tfl  jeft-  yna  awwifaqtive  me  if  I  seem  blatant,! 


:  bttfont^' 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

but  that  is  not  my  intention — 1  began  to  see  faintly  and 
very  inadequately  that  I  was  actually  in  touch  with  God. 

I  am  far  from  saying  that  all  my  difficulties  were  over- 
come. Of  course  they  were  not.  I  mean  only  that  that 
divine  force  of  which  I  had  been  told  the  universe  was 
full,  but  which  had  always  seemed  apart  from  me,  re- 
mote from  my  needs,  actually  came,  in  some  measure  at 
least,  within  my  possession.  Just  as  Beady  Lamont  found 
the  furniture-moving  business  shiny  with  it,  once  he  knew 
where  to  look  for  it,  so  I  began  to  see  my  work  as  an 
architect.  It  was  as  if  a  golden  key  had  been  put  into 
my  hand  which  unlocked  the  richest  of  life's  secrets. 

All  at  once  people  whom  I  had  known  to  be  well  dis- 
posed toward  me,  and  whom  I  had  dismissed  at  that, 
began  to  translate  God  to  me.  Ra);  Ii  Coningsby,  Can- 
tyre,  Lovey,  Christian,  Pyn,  not  to  speak  of  others,  were 
like  reflectors  that  threw  the  rays  of  the  great  Central 
Sun  straight  into  my  soul.  I  am  not  declaring  that  there 
was  no  tarnish  on  the  surfaces  that  caught  those  beams 
and  transmitted  them  to  me — probably  there  was — but 
light  and  warmth  were  pouted  into  me  for  all  that.  Not 
that  there  was  a  change  in  their  attitude  toward  me; 
the  change  was  in  my  point  of  view,  in  my  capacity  for 
seeing.  What  I  had  thought  of  only  as  human  aid  I 
now  perceived  to  be  the  celestial  bread  and  wine;  and 
where  I  had  supposed  I  was  living  only  with  men,  I 
knew  I  was  walking  with  God. 

And  yet  there  was  a  love  with  regard  to  which  I  could 
not  have  this  peace  of  mind.  Christian  would  perhaps 
have  ascribed  that  defect  to  the  fact  that  there  was 
passion  in  it.  My  own  fear  was  that,  having  had  it« 
inception  in  a  moment  of  crime,  it  could  never  free  itself 
from  the  conditions  that  gave  it  birth. 
191 


i 


! '  n 


U    ; 


THE   CITY   OF   COMRADES 

After  the  Christmas  dinner  there  was  a  change  toward 
me  in  the  bearing  of  Regina  Barry  and  her  mother. 
Without  growing  colder,  they  became  slightly  more  for- 
ma  ;  and  that  I  understood.  As  they  had  come  so  far 
Tmy  direction,  it  was  for  me  to  go  some  of  the  distance 
in  theirs,  and  I  didn't. 

I  didn't  bermse  I  couldn't.  I  was  l.ke  a  man  who 
would  have  beeu  glad  to  walk  if  paralysis  hadn  t  nailed 
him  to  his  seat.  As,  however,  it  was  emotional  paralysis 
and  not  physical,  there  was  no  means  by  which  they  could 
become  aware  of  it;  nor  could  I  make  up  my  mind  to  tell 

**'F!^r  quite  apart  from  my  damnable  secret  was  the  com- 
mon, every-day  fact  that  I  had  no  income  sufficient  to 
maintain  a  wife  in  anything  like  the  comfon  to  which 
Reuina  Barry  had  been  accustomed.  Though  she  might 
haTacceptTd  what  I  had  to  offer,  I  felt  the  usual  mas- 
culine scruples  as  to  offering  it.  This,  too,  was  some- 
thing that  couldn't  be  explained  unless  there  was  some 
urgent  need  of  the  exphnation;  and  so  when  I  was  mad 
to  go  forward  I  had,  to  my  shame  and  confusion,  to  hang 

^Their  retreat  was  man  ged  with  tact  and  dignity. 
During  the  week  after  Christmas  I  saw  them  on  a  num- 
ber  of  occasions,  always  by  invitation,  though  I  had  no 
farther  talk  with  Regina  Barry  alone  Two  or  three 
times  I  guessed  she  would  have  been  willing  to  go  out  to 
walk  with  me,  but  I  didn't  suggest  it.  As  she  had  pr«^ 
posed  it  once,  she  could  hardly  do  so  a  second  time, 
and  so  we  sat  tamely  in  a  sitting-room.  Like  that  mmute 
on  Christmas  Eve  when  she  would  have  flown  into  my 
arms  had  I  opened  them,  other  minutes  came  and  went, 
and  I  saw  my  coldness  reacting  on  her  visibly. 
19a 

\ 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

At  the  end  of  ten  days  a  note  told  me  that  they  had 
returned  to  New  York,  apologizing  for  the  fact  that  they 
had  not  had  time  to  bid  me  good-by.  Though  seeing 
plainly  eno  gh  the  folly  of  a  correspondence,  I  wrote  in 
response  to  that  note,  hoping  that  a  correspondence  might 
ensue.  But  I  got  no  answer.  I  got  nothing.  Not  so 
much  as  a  message  was  sent  to  me  on  the  days'  when 
Ralph  Coningsby  came  down. 

I  did  not  resent  this;  I  only  suffered.  I  suffered  the 
more  because  of  supposing  that  she  suffered  too.  And 
yet  when  I  next  saw  her  I  found  nothing  to  support  that 
theory. 

When  I  went  to  New  York  for  a  few  days  in  February 
I  called,  but  they  were  not  at  home.  Having  left  my 
card,  I  waited  for  a  message  that  would  name  an  hour 
when  I  should  find  them;  but  I  waited  in  vain.  During 
the  four  days  my  visit  lasted  I  heard  nothing  kindlier 
than  what  Cantyre  repeated,  that  they  were  sorry  to 
have  been  out  when  I  came. 

As  I  sent  them  flowers  before  leaving  the  city,  a  note 
from  Mrs.  Barry  thanked  me  for  them  cordially;  but 
there  was  not  a  syllable  in  it  that  gave  me  an  excuse  for 
writing  in  response.  Reason  told  me  that  it  was  better 
that  it  should  be  so,  but  reason  had  ceased  to  be  suffi- 
cient as  a  guide. 

In  March  I  made  an  errand  that  took  me  to  town  for 
a  week-end,  and  on  the  Sunday  afternoon  I  called  again 
at  the  house  which  had  so  curiously  become  the  focusing- 
pomt  of  my  destiny.  Miss  Barry  was  at  home  and  re- 
ceiving. I  found  her  with  two  or  three  other  people, 
and  she  welcomed  me  as  doubtless  she  had  welcomed 
them.  Even  when  I  had  outstayed  them  she  betrayed 
none  of  that  matter-of-course  intimacy  which  had  marked 
193 


,1.,   I 


1  \i     ,i 
\9     1 


THE   CITY   OF   COMRADES 

her  anitude  toward  me  in  December.  She  seemed  to 
have  retired  behind  all  (orts  of  mental  fortifications  over 
which  I  couldn't  at  first  make  my  way. 

When  we  were  seated  in  the  style  of  Darby  and  Joan 
at  the  opposite  comers  of  a  slumbering  fire  she  told  me 
her  father  had  made  one  hurried  visit  from  California, 
and  that,  now  that  he  had  returned  to  the  Pacific  coast, 
she  and  her  mother  were  thinking  of  joining  him  there. 
Should  they  do  so,  they  would  probably  remain  till  it 
was  time  to  go  to  Long  Island  in  June.  Two  or  three 
protrstations  against  this  absence  came  to  my  lips,  but 
of  course  I  couldn't  utter  them. 

I  could  have  sworn  that  she  was  saying  to  herself, 
"You  don't  seem  to  care!"  though  aloud  it  became, 
"We've  never  been  in  California,  and  we  want  to  see  what 
it's  like." 

I  seized  the  opportunity  to  rejoin,  "You've  a  fancy  for 
seeing  what  things  are  like,  haven't  you?" 

She  took  up  the  challenge  instantly.  "Why  do  you 
say  that?" 

"Only  because  of  what  you've  said  at  different  times 
yourself." 

"Such  as?" 

"I  don't  want  to  quote.  I  was  thinking  of  the  taste 
you've  frequently  acknowledged  for  making  experiments." 

"Experiments  in  things — or  people?" 

"I  was  thinking  of  people." 

S'  e  marched  right  into  my  camp  by  saying,  boldly, 
"Oh,  you  mean  the  number  of  times  I've — I've  broken 
engagements?" 

"Perhaps  I  mean  rather  the  number  of  times  you've 
formed  them." 

"Did  you  ever  buy  a  house?" 
«94 


Fill 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

I  replied  with  iome  wonder  that  I  had  not. 

"Well,  we've  bought  two— thi«  one  and  the  one  at 
Ko»yth.  But  before  buying  either  we  rented  each  for 
a  season  to  see  whether  or  not  we  liked  it." 

"And  you  did." 

"But  we've  rented  othen  which  we  didn't.  So  you 
«ee." 

"I  see  that  experiments  are  justified.  Is  that  what 
you  mean?" 

"  If  one  is  satisfied  with  anything  that  comes  alone,  hy  all 
means  take  it.  But  if  one  only  wants  what  one  wants—" 
"And  you  know  what  you  want?" 

Her  eyes  were  all  fire;  her  lips  had  the  Jaring  scarlet 
of  a  poppy. 

"I've  never  got  beyond  knowing  what  I  don't  want." 

"That  is,  you've  never  taken  anything  up  except  in 
the  long  run  to  throw  it  down?" 

"Your  expressions  are  too  harsh.  One  doesn't  throw 
down  everything  one  doesn't  want.    One  sets  it  aside." 

"And  would  i'  be  discreet  to  ask  why  you— why  you 
set  certain  things— and  people— aside?" 

She  looked  at  the  fire  as  if  considering. 

"Do  you  mean — men?" 

"To  narrow  the  inquiry  down,  suppose  I  say  I  do." 

"And"— she  threw  me  a  swift,  daring  glance— "and 
marriage?" 

"That  defines  the  question  still  further." 

Her  words  came  as  the  utterance  of  long,  long  thought*- 

"One  couldn't  marry  a  man  one  didn't  trust." 

"No;  of  course  not." 

"Nor  a  milksop." 

"You  couldn't." 

"Nor  a  man  who  wasn't  a  thoroughbred." 

m 


<  I 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

"Juw  what  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

•'Oh,don't  you  know?  Ifnot  I  can't  explain.  All  I  can 
•ay  i«  that  there  are  things  a  thoroughbred  couldn't  do." 

"What  sort  of  thingi?" 

"Why  should  you  want  me  to  tell  you?  You  know  as 
well  as  I  do.  The  things  that  make  a  man  impossible- 
mean  things — ignoble  things." 

"Criminal  things?" 

"Criminal  things,  too,  I  suppose.  I  don't  know  so 
much  about  them;  but  I  do  see  a  lot  of  meanness  and 
pettiness  and—  Oh,  well,  the  sort  of  lack  of  the  fastidious 
in  honor  that— that  puts  a  man  out  of  the  question." 

"Aren't  you  very  hard  to  please?" 

"Possibly." 

"And  if  you  don't  find  what— what  you're  looking  for?" 

"I  shall  do  without  it,  I  suppose." 

"And  if  you  think  you  find  it— and  then  discover  that, 
mfter  all—" 

She  shrugged  hei  shoulders. 

"I  don't  know.  I've  never  been  absolutely  disil- 
lusioned so  far.  When  disillusion  has  come  to  me— as 
it  has — I  could  see  it  on  the  way.  But  if  I— I  cared  for 
some  one  and  found  I  was  deceived  in  him—  But  what's 
the  use  in  talking  of  it  ?"  she  laughed.  "  Please  don't  think 
I'rn  putting  forth  a  claim  to  be  treated  better  than  the 
average.     It's  only  when  I  see  the  average — " 

"The  average  of  men?" 

"No,  the  average  of  women.  When  I  see  what  they're 
willing  to  take— and  marry— and  live  with — I  can  only 
«ay  that  I  find  myself  very  well  off  as  I  am." 

This  conversation  did  not  make  it  easier  for  me  to  go 
back  to  the  starting-point  of  our  acquaintance;   but  the 
moment  came  when  I  did  it. 
106 


CHAPTER  XFI 

I  DID  not,  however,  do  it  that  spring,  since  the  event 
that  compelled  me  at  laM  to  the  step  took  up  all  my 
attention. 

It  was  toward  the  end  of  April  that  I  received  a  tde- 
grnm  signed  by  my  sister's  name: 

"Mother  seriously  ill.  Wants  to  see  you.  Come  at 
once." 

In  spite  of  my  alarm  at  this  summons  I  saw  the  op- 
portunity of  putting  up  a  good  front  before  my  relatives. 
Taking  Lovey  with  me  as  valet,  and  stopping  at  the  best 
hotel,  I  presented  the  appearance  of  a  successful  man. 

Though  anxiety  on  my  mother's  account  made  my  re- 
turn a  matter  of  secondary  interest,  I  could  see  the  sur- 
prise and  relief  my  apparent  prosperity  created.  My 
brothers  had  been  expecting  one  of  whom  they  would 
have  to  be  ashamed.  Furthermore,  they  had  not  been 
too  confident  as  to  my  attitude  with  regard  to  my  father's 
will.  Looking  for  me  to  contest  it,  they  had  suspected 
that  behind  my  acquiescence  lay  a  ruse.  When  they  saw 
that  there  was  none,  that  I  made  no  complaint,  that  I 
seemed  to  have  plenty  of  money,  that  I  traveled  with  a 
servant,  that  I  had  the  air  of  a  man  of  means — a  curious 
note  of  wonder  an-*  respect  stole  into  their  manner  toward 
me.  I  know  that  in  private  they  were  saying  to  each 
other  that  they  couldn't  make  me  out;  and  I  gave  them 
no  help  in  doing  so. 

197 


4i 


THE   CITY  OF  COMRADES 
Iftre  th«m  no  hdp  durinc  •«  the  momh  I  rem  incd 
m  Montie.1     I  .rrwiged  with  Coninpby  to  take  that 
time,  Md  my  httle  .tock  of  laving,  yu  .ufficient  to  finance 

a  bluff  that  I  felt  to  be  juatifiedi  and  in  the  end  it  found 
itt  JL  .    cation. 

I  have  no  intention  of  giving  you  the  detail*  of  thoM 
four  week,  of  watching  betide  a  bed  where  the  end  waa 
apparent  from  the  fir.t.  Now  that  I  look  back  upon  them, 
1  can  tee  that  they  were  not  without  >!,-;,  clement  of 
happine.^  tince  to  my  mother  at  leatt  it  vat  happinett 
to  know  that  I  wa.  betide  her.  The  joy  in  heaven  over 
one  tinner  that  repenteth  wat  on  her  face  from  the  day 
I  appeared,  and  never  left  it  up  to  that  moment  when 
we  took  our  latt  look  at  her  dear  tmiUng  featuret. 

When  the  lawyer  came  to  read  ui  her  will  I  found, 
to  my  amazement,  that  the  had  left  me  everything  the 
poiteiied.  ' 

A  !l  711  ■''^  J*""  ^  ""^  *•■"  ^'"■^''  I  had  town  at 
Andy  Chnttian  t  tuggettion.  Since  with  a  good  grace  I 
had  accepted  my  father',  will,  the  lett  of  the  family  could 
hardly  do  otherwise  with  regard  to  my  mother"..    She 

eft  a  note  saying  that,  had  my  father  lived  a  few  month, 
longer,  he  would  have  teen  that  I  had  re^ablished  my- 
.elf  tufficently  to  be  allowed  to  share  equally  with  the 
rest  of  the  family  ■„  what  he  had  to  leave;  but,  at  it  wa. 
too  late  for  that,  she  wat  endeavoring  to  right  the  seem- 
ing  injustice-which  he  had  not  meant  as  an  injustice^- 
as  far  as  lay  in  her  power.  These  words  from  her  pen 
being  much  more  emphatic  than  any  I  could  remr.nber 
from  her  lips,  my  brothers  and  sisters,  whatever  they  felt 
inwardly,  could  only  give  their  assent  to  them. 

What  my  mother  possessed  included  not  only  the  per- 
198 


THE   CITY  OF  ^^JUDES 

land,  and  to  my  two  .!«?«?„  I      *°  ""^  *'«"  '"  Eng- 
b««c  for  my  wi^IThriTor tr  *''°"*''  '""'"»  '"• 

motL^rd\r„:^r;;:i*'.rrH  ts"-'"  -^ 

l^her  with  the  trusted  ^alh:  "  ytytth^a;: 

i^Lr'^^lTi;  Sh  s:  '"°r  ^'-^ '"« •- 

fc,_  '-"■■iiorx  ai  Kalph  Conmgsby.     I  could    tk.... 

II'cK::."  *"^'"'  "-'^ '""  '-^  ^  -'<!  -In 

herM'/w^SV^r^:  the  conclusion  that  if  I  a.ked 
thi.  feehng  on  her  n^^"  K  ?°  '"""P*  *°  ""''j^ 

thatitwa,%::n'd:dr;i«7ri,r  f '"'^  r""- 

developed  an  ideal  of  thl  1         u         I  *°  "J''  ''»^'  E 

.he  haS  nursed  hletflo'he"  b'SlXh «  1"""  •"'"^• 

K.  when   as  a  matter  of  fact'  I  SSlf*  '  """  ""  ^ 

Now  I  had  seen  enough  of  husband,  and  wives  to  know 

«;  haTT  rtif  ^",r '  '"^''  ''™-"^ 


I.,.    :;: 


THE   CITY   OF   COMRADES 

diicover  what  I  felt  it  my  duty  to  confess.  Was  it  really, 
then,  my  duty  to  confess  it?  Since  no  cue  knew  it  but 
myself,  was  it  not  rather  my  duty  to  keep  it  concealed? 
Other  men  had  secrets  from  their  wives— especially  those 
that  concerned  the  days  when  they  were  unmarried— 
nd  all  were  probably  the  happier  for  the  secrecy.  Even 
Ralph  Coningsby,  who  was  the  most  model  husband  I 
could  think  of,  had  said  that  if  he  were  to  tell  his  wife 
all  he  could  tell  her  about  himself  he  would  be  ashamed 
to  go  home.  There  were  weeks  when  I  debated  these 
questions  every  day  and  night,  arriving  at  one  conclusion 
by  what  I  may  call  my  rough  horse  sense,  and  at  another 
by  my  instinct.  Horse  sense  said,  "Marry  her  and  keep 
mum."  Instinct  warned,  "You  can  never  marry  her 
and  be  safe  and  happy  with  such  a  secret  as  this  to  come 
between  you." 

Throughout  this  wavering  of  opinion  I  knew  that  when 
the  time  came  I  should  act  from  instinct.  It  wasn't  mere- 
ly -Sat  I  wanted  to  be  safe;  it  was  also  that,  all  pros  and 
cons  apart,  there  was  such  a  thing  as  honor.  Not  even 
to  be  happy— not  even  to  make  the  woman  I  cared  for 
happy — could  I  ignore  that. 

I  am  not  sure  how  much  Andrew  Christian  understood 
of  the  circumstances  when,  without  giving  him  the  facts 
or  mentioning  a  name,  I  asked  his  advice.  He  only  said: 
"You've  had  some  experience,  Frank,  of  the  potency 
of  love,  haven't  you  ?  Well,  love  has  a  twin  sister— truth. 
In  love  and  truth  together  there's  a  power  which,  if  we 
have  the  patience  to  wait  for  its  working  out,  will  solve 
all  difficulties  and  meet  all  needs." 

My  experiences  during  the  past  few  months  having 
given  me  some  reason  to  believe  this,  I  decided,  so  far 
ju  I  came  actively  to  a  decision,  to  let  it  rule  my  course; 
200 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

but  in  the  end  the  critical  moment  came  by  what  you 
would  probably  call  an  accident. 

It  was  the  last  Sunday  in  June.  My  work  in  Atlantic 
City  being  over,  Mrs.  Grace  had  asked  me  to  come  down 
for  the  week-end  to  her  little  place  in  Long  Island.  It 
was  not  exactly  a  party,  though  there  were  two  or  three 
other  people  staying  in  the  house.  My  chief  reason  for 
accepting  the  invitation— as  I  think  it  was  the  chief 
reason  for  its  being  given— was  that  the  Barry  family 
were  in  residence  on  the  old  Homblower  estate,  which 
was  the  adjoining  property. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Mrs.  Grace  and  her  guests  were 
all  asked  to  Idlewild,  as  the  late  Mrs.  Homblower  had 
named  her  house,  to  Sunday  lunch. 

The  path  from  the  one  dwelling  to  the  other  was  down 
the  gentle  slope  of  Mrs.  Grace's  gardens,  across  a  meadow, 
at  the  other  side  of  which  it  joined  the  Idlewild  avenue, 
and  then  up  a  steep  hill  to  the  rambling  ed-and-yellow 
house.  Here  one  dominated  the  Sound  for  a  great  part 
of  the  hundred  and  twenty  miles  between  Montauk  Point 
and  Brooklyn. 

Sauntering  idly  through  the  hot  summer  noon,  I  found 
myself  beside  Mrs.  Grace,  while  the  rest  of  the  party 
straggled  on  ahead.  As  my  hostess  was  not  more  free 
than  other  women  from  the  match-making  instinct,  it 
was  natural  that  she  should  give  to  the  conversation  a 
turn  that  she  knew  would  not  be  distasteful  to  me. 

"She's  a  wonderful  girl,"  she  observed,  "with  just  that 
danger  to  threaten  her  that  comes  from  being  over- 
fastidious." 

"I  know  what  you  mean  by  her  being  over-fastidious; 
but  why  is  it  a  danger?" 

'In  the  first  place,  because  people  misunderstand  her. 

14  301 


.ill 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

They've  ascribed  to  Ught-mindednesi  what  has  only 
been  the  thing  that  literary  people  call  the  divine  search- 
ing for  perfection." 

"And  do  you  know  the  kind  of  thing  she'd  consider 
perfect?" 

It  was  so  stupid  a  question  that  I  couldn't  be  surprised 
to  see  a  gleam  of  quiet  mischief  in  her  glance  as  she  re* 
plied,  "From  little  hints  she's  dropped  to  me,  quite  con> 
fidentially,  I  rather  think  I  do." 

Fair  men  blush  easily,  but  I  tried  to  ignore  the  fact 
that  I  was  doing  it  as  I  said,  "That's  quite  a  common 
delusion  at  one  stage  of  the  game;  but  suppose  she  were 
to  find  that  she  was  mistaken?" 

The  answer  shelved  the  question,  though  she  did  it 
disconcertingly:  "Oh,  well,  in  the  case  she's  thinking 
of  I  don't  believe  she  will." 

I  was  so  eager  for  data  that  I  pushed  the  inquiry 
indiscreetly. 

"What  makes  /ou  so  sure?" 

"One  can  tell.  It  isn't  a  thing  one  can  put  into  words. 
You  know  by  a  kind  of  intuition." 

"Know  what?" 

"That  a  certain  kind  of  person  can  never  have  had  any 
but  a  certain  kind  of  standard."  She  gave  me  another 
of  those  quietly  mischievous  glances.  "I'll  tell  you  what 
she  said  to  me  one  day  not  long  ago.  She  said  she'd  only 
known  one  man  in  her  life — known  him  well,  that  is — 
of  whom  she  was  sure  that  he  was  a  thoroughbred  to  the 


"But  you  admitted  at  the  beginning  that  that  kind 
of  conviction  is  a  danger." 

"It  would  be  a  danger  if  her  friends  couldn't  bear  her 
out  in  believing  it  to  be  justified." 
202 


THE   CITY   OF   COMRADES 

Unable  to  face  any  mote  of  this  subtle  flattery,  I  wai 
obliged  to  let  the  subject  drop. 

The  lunch  was  like  any  other  lunch.  As  an  unimpor- 
tant  person  at  a  gathering  where  every  one  knew  every 
one  else  more  or  less  intimately,  I  was  to  some  extent  at 
liberty  to  follow  my  own  thoughts,  which  were  not  al- 
together happy  ones.  For  telling  what  I  had  to  tell,  the 
necessity  had  grown  urgent.  What  was  lacking,  what  had 
always  seemed  to  ,  e  lacking,  was  the  positive  opportunity. 
This  I  resolved  to  seek;  but  suddenly  I  found  it  before 
me. 

This  was  toward  the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  when  the 
party  had  broken  up.  It  had  broken  up  imperceptibly 
by  dissolving  into  groups  that  strolled  about  the  lawns 
and  descended  the  long  flights  of  steps  leading  to  the 
beach  below.  As  I  had  not  been  seated  near  Miss  Barry 
at  table,  it  was  no  more  than  civil  for  me  to  approach 
her  when  the  party  was  on  the  veranda  and  the  lawn. 
Our  right  to  privacy  was  recognized  at  once  by  a  with- 
drawal of  the  rest  of  the  company.  It  was  probably  as- 
sumed that  I  was  to  be  the  fourth  in  the  series  of  experi- 
ments of  which  Jim  Hunter  and  Stephen  Cantyre  had 
been  the  second  and  the  third;  and,  though  my  fellow- 
guests  might  be  sorry  for  me,  they  would  not  intervene 
to  protect  me. 

Considering  it  sufficient  to  make  their  adieux  to  Mrs. 
Barry,  they  left  us  undisturbed  in  a  nook  of  one  of  the 
verandas.  Here  we  were  out  of  sight  of  any  of  the 
avenues  and  pathways  to  the  house,  and  Mrs.  Barry 
was  sufficiently  in  sympathy  with  our  desire  to  be  alone 
not  to  send  any  one  in  search  of  us.  On  the  lawn  robins 
were  hopping,  and  along  the  edge  of  shorn  grass  the  last 
foxgloves  made  upright  lines  of  color  against  the  olive- 
s' 


|1  n 


THE   CITY   OF   COMRADES 

(Teen  scrub-oak.    Far  down  through  the  trees  one  caught 
the  silvery  glinting  of  water. 

The  sounds  of  voices  and  motor  wheels  having  died 
away.  Miss  Barry  said,  languidly:  "I  think  they  must  be 
all  gone.  They'll  say  I'm  terribly  rude  to  keep  myself 
out  of  sight.  But  it's  lovely  here,  isn't  it?  And  this 
is  such  a  cozy  spot  in  which  to  smoke  and  have  coffee. 
I  read  here,  too,  and —    Oh,  dear,  what's  happening?" 

It  was  then  that  the  little  accident  which  was  to  play 
so  large  a  part  in  my  life  occurred.  She  had  leaned  for- 
ward from  her  wicker  chair  to  set  her  empty  coffee-cup 
on  the  table.  As  she  did  so  the  string  of  pearls  which 
she  wore  at  the  opening  of  her  simple  white  dress  loosened 
itself  and  slipped  like  a  tiny  snake  to  the  floor  of  the 
veranda.  From  a  corresponding  chair  on  the  other  side 
of  the  table  I  sprang  up  and  stooped.  When  I  raised  my- 
self with  the  pearls  in  my  right  hand  I  slipped  them  into 
my  pocket. 

Between  the  fingers  cf  my  left  hand  I  held  a  lighted 
cigar.  Bareheaded,  I  was  wearing  white  flannels  and 
tennis  shoes.  Now  that  the  moment  had  come,  I  felt 
extraordinarily  cool — as  cool  as  on  the  night  when  I  had 
slipped  this  string  of  pearls  into  my  pocke*-  before.  I 
looked  down  and  smiled  at  her.  Leaning  back  in  her 
chair,  she  looked  up  and  smiled  at  me. 

I  shall  always  see  her  like  that — in  white  with  a  slash 
of  silk  of  the  red  of  her  lips  somewhere  about  her  waist, 
and  a  ribbon  of  the  same  round  her  dashing  Panama  hat. 
Her  feet  in  little  brown  shoes  were  crossed.  With  an 
elbow  on  the  arm  of  hei  chair,  she  held  a  small  red 
fan  out  from  her  person,  though  she  wasn't  actively 
using  it. 

"What  does  that  mean?"  she  asked,  idly,  at  last. 
204 


i'    .. 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

"Doesn't  it  remind  you  of  anjrthing?" 

"No— of  nothing." 

"Didn't  you  ever  see  any  one  put  these  peails  into  his 
pocket  before?" 

"Why,  nol"  She  added,  as  if  an  idea  had  begun  to 
dawn  in  the  back  of  her  memory,  "Not  in  that  way." 

"Oh,  I  remember.  You  didn't  see  him  put  them  in 
at  all.    You  only  saw  him  take  them  out." 

The  smile  remained  on  her  features,  but  something 
puzzlH  gave  it  faint  new  curves. 

"Why—" 

"It  was  like  this,  wasn't  it?" 

I  drew  out  the  pearls  and  threw  them  on  the  table. 

She  bent  forward  slightly,  still  smiling,  like  a  person 
watching  with  bewildered  intensity  a  conjurer's  trick. 

'•Why—" 

"Only  your  gold-mesh  purse  was  with  them— and  your 
diamond  bar-pin — and  your  rings." 

"Why— who,  who  on  earth  could  have  told  you?" 

I,  too,  continued  to  smile,  consciously  wondering  if  I 
should  be  as  calm  as  this  in  the  hour  of  death. 

"Who  do  you  think?" 

"It  wasn't  Elsie  Coningsby?" 

"No.     She  was  in  the  house,  but — " 

"How  did  you  know  that?"  She  uttered  a  mystified 
laugh.  "She  mas  there!  It  was  one  of  the  nights  she 
stayed  with  me  when  papa  and  mamma  were  down  here 
superintending  some  changes  before  we  could  move  in. 
But  I  never  told  her  anything  about  it." 

II Why  didn't  you— when  she  was  right  t  i  the  spot?" 

"Oh,  because." 

The  smile  disappeared.     She  stopped  looking  up  at  me 
to  turn  her  eyes  toward  the  foxgloves  and  scrub-oak. 
205 


'ii 


M 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 


I 
f 


"Yet?    BecauM»-^at?" 

"Because  I  ptomited — that  man — I  wouldn't." 

"Why  should  you  have  made  him  such  a  promise?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  Just  at  the  time  I  was — I  was 
•orty  for  him." 

"And  aren't  you  sorry  for  him  still?" 

She  looked  up  at  me  again  with  one  of  her  bright 
challenges. 

"Look  here!    Do  you  know  himf" 

"Tell  me  first  what  I  asked  you.  Aren't  you  sorry 
for  him  still?" 

"I  dare  say  I  am.    I  don't  know." 

"What  did  you — ^what  did  you — think  of  him  at  the 
time?" 

"I  thought  he  was — terrible." 

"Terrible — in  what  way?" 

"I  don't  know  that  I  can  tell  you  in  what  way.  It 
was  so  awful  to  think  that  a  man  who  had  had  some 
advantages  should  have  sunk  to  that.  If  he'd  been  a  real 
burglar — I  mean  a  professional  criminal — I  should  have 
been  afraid  of  him;  but  I  shouldn't  have  had  that  sensa- 
tion of  something  meant  for  better  things  that  had  been 
debased." 

"Didn't  he  tell  you  he  was  hungry?" 

The  smile  came  back — faintly. 

"You  seem  to  know  all  about  it,  don't  you?  It's 
the  strangest  thing  I  ever  knew.  No  one  in  this  world 
could  have  told  you  but  himself.  Yes,  he  did  say  he 
was  hungry;  but  then,  a  man  who'd  been  what  he  mus;: 
have  been  shouldn't  have  got  into  that  condition.  He'd 
stolen  into  our  pantry,  poor  creature,  and  drunk  the 
cooking-wine.  He  told  me  that — "  Without  rising,  her 
figure  became  alert  with  a  new  impulse.  "Oh,  I  seel 
206 


11! 


H    11 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

You  do  know  him.    He  waa  an  Engluhman.    I  rencm- 
ber  that." 

I  placed  myself  fully  before  her.    "No,  he  waan't  an 
Englishman." 
"He  spoke  like  one." 
"So  do  I,  for  the  matter  of  that." 

"Then  he  was  a  Canadian.    Was  he?" 

"He  was  a  Canadian." 

"Oh,  then  that  accounts  for  it.  But  you  did  purde 
me  at  first.  But  how  did  you  come  to  meet  himf 
Was  it  at  that  Down  and  Out  Qub  that  papa  and 
Mr.  Christian  are  so  interested  in?  You  go  to  it, 
too,  don't  you?  I  think  Stephen  Cantyre  said  you 
did." 

"Yes,  I  go  to  it,  too." 

She  grew  pensive,  resting  her  chin  on  a  hand,  with 
her  elbow  on  the  arm  of  the  chair. 

"I  suppose  it's  all  right;  but  I  never  can  understand 
how  men  can  be  so  merciful  to  one  other's  vices.  It 
looks  as  if  they  recognized  the  seed  of  them  within  them- 
selves." 

"Probably  that's  the  reason." 

"Women  don't  feel  like  that  about  one  another." 

"They  haven't  the  same  cause." 

"I  hope  he's  doing  bettei^-that  man— and  pickine  up 
again."  *    "^ 

"He  is." 

She  asked,  m  quite  another  tone,  "You're  not  going 
back  to  New  York  to-morrow,  are  you?" 

"I'm  not  sure — yet." 

"Hilda  said  she  was  going  to  try  to  persuade  you  and 
the  Grahams  to  stay  till  Tuesday.     If  you  can  stay, 
mamma  and  I  were  planning — " 
207 


I 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 


* 


I  put  tnyielf  directly  in  front  of  her,  no  more  th^  a  finr 
feet  away,  my  hands  in  the  pocketi  of  my  jacket. 

"Look  at  me  again.  Look  at  me  welL  Tty  to  i»- 
cM—" 

Slowly,  very  slowly,  she  struggled  to  her  feet.  The 
color  went  out  of  her  lips  and  the  light  from  her  eye* 
as  she  backed  away  from  me  in  a  kind  of  terror. 

"What — what — are  you  trying  to  make  me — to  make 
me  understand?" 

"ThinkI  How  should  I  know  all  that  I've  been 
•aying  if—" 

"If  the  man  himself  didn't  tell  you.    But  he  did." 

"No,  he  didn't.    No  one  had  to  tell  me." 

She  reached  the  veranda  rail,  which  she  clutched  with 
one  hand,  while  the  other,  clenched,  was  pressed  against 
her  breast. 

"You  don't  mean — " 

"Yes,  I  do  mean—" 

"Oh,  you  can't?" 

"Why  can't  L" 

"Because — because  it  isn't — it  isn't  possible!  You" 
^^he  seemed  to  be  shivering — "you  could  never  have — " 

"But  I  did." 

She  gasped  brokenly.    "You?    You?" 

I  nodded.    "Yes— L" 

I  tried  to  tell  her,  but  I  suppose  I  did  it  badly.  Put 
into  a  few  bald  words  the  tale  was  not  merely  sordid, 
it  was  low.  I  could  give  it  no  softening  touch,  no  saving 
grace.     It  was  more  beastly  than  I  had  ever  imagined  it. 

Fortunately  she  didn't  listen  with  attention.  The 
means  were  indifferent  to  her  when  she  knew  the  end. 
For  the  minute,  at  any  rate,  she  saw  me  not  as  I  stood 
there,  clean  and  in  white,  but  as  I  had  been  a  year  b*- 

"208  _ 


THE  CITY  OF   COMRADES 

fbte,  ditty  and  in  ragt.  But  the  taw  more  than  that. 
With  every  word  I  uttered  she  saw  the  ideal  she  had 
formed  broken  into  ahivers,  like  a  shattered  looking- 
glass. 

She  interrupted  my  piepottetoui  «ory  to  gasp,  "I 
can't  believe  itl" 

"But  it's  true." 

"Then  you  mustn't  mind  if— if  I  put  you  to  a  test. 
Did  you  —  did  you  write  anything  while  you  were 
there?" 

"I  printed  something— in  the  same  kind  of  letters 
you've  seen  at  the  bottom  of  architects'  plans." 

"And  how  did  you  come  to  do  it?" 

I  recounted  the  circumstance,  at  which  she 'nodded 
her  head  in  verification. 

"So  that  was  how  you  knew  the  words  you  repeated 
to  me  a  few  months  ago?" 

"That  was  how.  I  said  there  were  men  in  the  world 
different  from  any  you'd  seen  yet;  and  I  told  you  to 
wait." 

She  made  a  tremendous  effort  to  become  again  the 
daring  mistress  of  herself  which  she  generally  was.  She 
smiled,  too.  nervously,  and  with  a  kind  of  sickening, 
ghastly  whiteness. 

"Funny,  isn't  it?  There  ate  men  in  the  world  differ- 
ent from  any  I'd  seen  before  that  time.  I've— I've 
waited — and  found  out." 

Rcfore  I  could  utter  a  rejoinder  to  this  she  said,  quite 
courteously,  "Will  you  excuse  me?" 

I  bowed. 

With  no  further  explanation  she  marched  down  the 
le|)gth  of  the  veranda — canying  herself  proudly,  placing 
her  dainty  feet  daintily,  walking  with  that  care  which 

a  »09 


THE   CITY   OF   COMRADES 


,1'  i 


people  ihow  when  they  are  not  ceRain  of  their  ability 
to  walk  straight — and  entered  the  house. 

I  didn't  know  why  she  had  gone;  but  I  knew  the  worst 
was  over.  Though  I  felt  humiliation  to  the  core  of  the 
heart's  core,  I  also  felt  relief. 

With  a  foot  dangling,  I  sat  sidewise  on  the  veranda 
rail  and  waited.  Glancing  at  my  watch,  I  saw  it  was 
not  yet  four,  and  I  had  lived  through  years  since  I  had 
climbed  the  hill  at  one.  My  sensations  were  comparable 
only  to  those  of  the  man  who  has  been  on  trial  for  hi* 
life  and  is  waiting  for  the  verdict. 

I  waited  nervously,  and  yet  humbly.  Now  that  it 
was  all  over,  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  bitterness  of 
death  was  past.  Whatever  else  I  should  have  to  go 
through  in  life,  nothing  could  equal  the  past  quarter  of 
an  hour. 

The  sensations  I  hadn't  had  while  making  my  con- 
fession began  to  come  to  me  by  degrees.  Looking  back 
over  the  chasm  I  had  crossed,  I  was  amazed  to  think  I 
had  had  the  nerve  for  it.  I  trembled  reminiscently;  the 
cold  sweat  broke  out  on  my  forehead.  It  was  terrible 
to  think  that  at  that  very  minute  she  was  in  there  weigh- 
ing the  evidence,  against  me  and  in  my  favor. 

Mechanically  I  relighted  the  cigar  that  had  gone  out. 
Against  me  and  in  my  favorl  I  was  not  blind  to  the  fact 
that  in  my  favor  there  was  something.  I  had  gone  down, 
but  I  had  also  struggled  up  again;  and  you  can  make 
an  appeal  for  the  man  who  has  done  that. 

She  was  long  in  coming  back.  I  glanced  at  my  watch, 
and  it  was  nearly  half  past  four.  Her  weighing  of  the 
evidence  had  taken  her  half  an  hour,  and  it  was  evidently 
not  over  yet.  Well,  juries  were  often  slow  in  coming  to 
a  verdict;  and  doubtless  she  was  balancing  the  extenuat- 


THE  CITY  OF   COMRADES 

ing  cireumnuce  that  I  had  ttruggled  up  acaimt  the  main 
fact  that  I  had  gone  down. 

What  (he  conndered  her  ideal  had  during  the  pa«t  few 
weeki  been  gradually  trantferring  itself  from  her  mind 
to  my  own.  She  wouldn't  marry  a  man  ihe  couldn't 
truit;  she  wouldn't  marry  a  man  who  hadn't  what  she 
called  spirit;  she  wouldn't  marry  a  milksop.  But  she  had 
well-defined— and  yet  indefinable— conceptions  as  to  how 
far  in  spirit  a  man  should  go,  and  of  the  difference  between 
being  a  milksop  and  a  man  of  honor.  She  might  find  it 
hard  to  admit  that  the  pendulum  of  human  impulse  that 
swung  far  in  one  direction  might  swing  equally  far  in  the 
other;    and  therein  would  lie  my  danger. 

But  I  must  soon  know.  It  was  ten  minutes  of  five. 
The  jury  had  been  out  more  than  three-quarters  of  an 
hour. 

A  new  quality  was  being  transmuted  into  the  at- 
mosphere. It  was  as  if  the  lightest,  flimsiest  veil  had 
been  flung  across  the  sun.  In  the  distant  glinting  of  the 
sea,  which  had  been  silver,  there  came  a  tremulous  shade 
of  gold.  The  foxgloves  bowed  themselves  like  men  at 
prayer.  The  robins  betook  themselves  to  the  branches. 
From  unseen  depths  of  the  scrub-oak  there  was  an  occa- 
sional luscious  trill,  as  the  time  for  the  singing  of  birds 
wasn't  over  yet. 
'  Round  me  there  was  silence.  I  might  have  been  sitting 
at  the  door  of  an  empty  house.  I  listened  intently  for 
the  sound  of  returning  footsteps,  but  none  came. 

At  a  quarter  past  five  a  chill  about  the  heart  began 
to  strike  me.  I  had  been  waiting  more  than  an  hour. 
Could  it  be  possible  that  .   .  .   ? 

It  would  be  the  last  degree  of  insult.  Whatever  she 
did,  she  wouldn't  subject  me  »o  that.     It  would  be  worse 


1.1 


m 


I" 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

than  her  glove  acroti  the  face.  It  wai  out  of  the  q  ^estion. 
I  couldn't  bear  to  think  of  it.  Rather  than  think  of  it, 
I  went  over  the  probabilitiei  that  (he  would  come  back 
with  the  smile  of  forgivenesi.  It  would  doubtless  be  a 
tearful  smile,  for  tears  were  surely  the  cause  of  her  delay. 
When  she  had  controlled  them,  when  she  was  able  to 
speak  and  bid  me  be  of  good  comfort,  I  should  hear  the 
tap  of  her  high  heels  coming  down  the  uncarpeted  stair- 
way. No  red  Indian  ever  listened  for  the  tread  of  a 
maid's  moccasins  on  forest  moss  so  intently  as  I  for  that 
staccato  click. 

But  only  the  birds  rewarded  me,  and  the  cries  of  boyt 
who  had  come  to  bathe  on  the  beach  below.  There  wai 
more  gold  in  the  light;  more  trilling  in  the  branches;  a 
more  pungent  scent  from  the  trees,  the  flowers,  and  the 
grass;  and  that  was  all. 

It  was  half  past  five;  it  was  a  quarter  to  six;  it  was  six. 

At  six  o'clock  I  knew. 

My  hat  was  lying  on  a  chair  near  by.  I  picked  it  up— 
and  went. 

I  went,  not  by  the  avenue  and  the  path,  but  down  the 
queei,  rickety  flights  of  steps  that  led  from  one  jutting 
rock  to  another  over  the  face  of  the  cliiF,  till  I  re?rhed  th« 
beach.  It  was  a  broad,  whitish,  sandy  beach,  with  a 
quietly  lapping  tide  almost  at  the  full.  Full  tide  was 
marked  a  few  feet  farther  up  by  a  long,  wavy  line  of  sea- 
weed and  other  jetsam. 

It  was  the  delicious  hour  for  bathing.  As  far  as  one 
could  see  in  either  direction  there  were  heads  bobbing 
in  the  water  and  people  scrambling  in  and  out.  Shrill 
cries  of  women  and  children,  hoarse  shouts  of  men, 
mingled  with  the  piping  of  birds  overhead.  Farther  out 
than  the  bathers  there  were  rowboats,  and  beyond  tha 

212 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

Mwboiu  tails.  In  the  middle  of  the  Sound  a  steamer 
or  two  trailed  a  laiy  flag  of  (moke.  Far,  far  to  the  louth 
and  the  wett  a  haze  like  that  round  a  volcano  hung 
over  New  York.  I  should  return  there  next  day  to  face 
new  conditions.  I  only  wished  to  God  that  it  could  be 
that  night. 

The  new  conditions  were,  briefly,  three:  I  could  use  the 
I  revolver  still  lying  in  my  desk;  or  I  could  begin  to  drink 
again;  or,  like  the  bull  wounded  in  the  ring,  I  could  seek 
shelter  in  the  dumb  sympathy  of  the  Down  and  Out. 

The  last  seemed  to  me  the  least  attractive.  I  had 
climbed  that  hill,  and  found  it  led  only  to  a  precipice  that 
I  had  fallen  over. 

Neither  did  the  first  possibility  charm  me  especially. 
Apart  from  the  horror  of  it,  it  was  too  brief,  too  sudden, 
too  conclusive.     I  wanted  the  gradual,  the  prolonged. 

It  was  the  second  course  to  which  my  mind  turned 
with  the  nearest  approach  to  satisfaction.  Christian  had 
told  me  that  some  of  my  severest  tussles  lay  ahead,  and 
now  I  had  come  to  the  one  in  which  I  should  go  under. 
In  that  the  flesh  at  least  would  get  its  hour  of  compensa- 
tion, when  all  was  said  and  done. 

At  the  foot  of  Mrs.  Grace's  steps  I  paused  to  recall 
Christian's  words  of  a  few  days  previously: 

"In  love  and  truth  together  there's  a  power  which,  if 
we  have  the  patience  to  wait  for  its  working  out,  will 
solve  all  difficulties  and  meet  all  needs." 

I  had  tried  that — love  and  truth  together! — and  at  the 
result  I  could  only  laugh. 

My  immediate  fear  was  lest  Mrs.  Grace  and  the  Gra- 
hams would  be  on  the  veranda,  vaguely  expecting  to  offer 
me  their  congratulations.     When  half-way  up  the  steps 
I  heard  voices  and  knew  that  they  were  there.     So  be  it  I 
*«3 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 


r 
i1 


M    ■ 

i| 

If 

!    j 

"  1 

1' 

I  bad  faced  worse  things  in  my  life;   and  now  I  could 
face  that. 

But  as  I  advanced  up  the  lawn  I  saw  them  moving 
about  and  talking  with  animation.  As  soon  as  Mrs. 
Grace  caught  sight  of  me  she  hurried  down  the  steps, 
meeting  me  as  I  passed  among  the  flower-beds.  She 
held  a  newspaper  marked  Extra  in  her  hand,  and  seemed 
to  have  forgotten  that  I  had  love-affairs. 

"Have  you  seen  this?  Colt,  the  chauffeur,  was  at  the 
station  and  brought  it  back.  It's  just  come  down  from 
New  York." 

Glad  of  anything  that  would  distract  attention  from 
myself,  I  took  the  paper  in  my  hand  and  pretended  to  be 
reading  it.  All  I  got  was  the  vague  information  that 
some  one  had  been  assassinated — some  man  and  his  mor- 
ganatic wife.  What  did  it  matter  to  me?  What  did  it 
matter  to  any  one?  Of  all  that  was  printed  there,  only 
five  syllables  took  possession  of  my  memory — and  that 
because  they  were  meaningless,  "Gavrilo  Prinzipl" 

I  was  repeating  them  to  myself  as  I  handed  the  paper 
back,  and  we  exchanged  comments  of  which  I  have  no 
recollection.  More  comments  were  passed  with  the 
Grahams,  and  then,  blindly,  drunkenly,  I  made  my  way 
to  my  room. 

There  I  found  nothing  to  do  less  classic  than  to  sit  at 
the  open  window,  to  look  over  at  the  red-and-yellow 
house  on  the  opposite  hill.  It  was  my  intention  to  think 
the  matter  out,  but  my  brain  seemed  to  have  stopped  work- 
ing. Nothing  came  to  me  but  those  barbaric  sounds, 
that  kept  repeating  themselves  with  a  kind  of  hiss: 
"Gavrilo  Prinzipl    Gavrilo  Prinzipl" 

From  my  stupefied  scanning  of  the  paper  I  hadn't 
grasped  the  fact  that  a  name  utteriy  unknown  that  mors- 
214 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

ing  wag  being  flashed  round  the  woiM  at  a  speed  more 
rapid  than  that  of  the  earth  roun  ;  the  sun.  Still  less  did 
I  suspect  that  it  was  to  becon  i  in  its  way  the  most 
sinister  name  in  history.  I  kept  -eneating  it  .nly  as  you 
repeat  senseless  things  in  the  minutes  ut.'ore  you  go  to 
•leep. 
"GavtiloPrinzipl    Gaviilo  Ptinzipl    GavriloPtinzipP' 


CHAPTER  xrn 


I'!: 


I 


illl 


T  CAME  back  as  Major  Melbury,  of  one  of  the  Canadian 
*  regiments. 

It  was  in  November,  1916,  that  I  was  invalided  home 
to  Canada  lamed  and  wearing  a  disfiguring  black  patch 
over  what  had  been  my  left  eye. 

There  were  other  differences  of  which  I  can  hardly  tell 
you  in  so  many  words,  but  which  must  transpire  as  I  go 
on.  Bnefly,  they  summed  themselves  up  in  the  fact 
that  I  had  gone  away  one  man  and  I  was  coming  back 
another.  My  old  self  had  not  only  been  melted  down  in 
the  crucible,  but  it  had  been  stamped  with  a  new  image 
and  superscription.  It  was  of  a  new  value  and  a  new 
currency,  and,  I  think  I  may  venture  to  add,  of  that 
new  coinage  minted  in  the  civil  strife  of  mankind. 

The  day  of  my  sailing  from  Liverpool  was  exactly  two 
years  four  months  and  three  weeks  from  that  on  which  I 
had  last  seen  Regina  Barry;  and  because  it  was  so  I  must 
tell  you  at  once  of  an  incident  that  occurred  at  the  minute 
when  I  stepped  on  board. 

Having  come  up  the  long  gangway  easily  enough,  I 
found  that  at  the  top,  where  passengers  and  their  friends 
congregate,  my  difficulties  began. 

When  my  left  eye  had  been  shot  out  the  right  had  suf- 
fered m  sympathy,  and  also  from  shock  to  the  retina. 
For  a  while  I  had  been  blind.     Rest  and  care  in  the  hos- 
pital my  sister,  Mabel  Rideover,  maintained  at  Taplow 
216 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

the  sight  ofmy  right  eye;  and 


now 


r  myself 


had,  however, 

my  trouble  was  only  with  perspective, 
crowded  on  one  another  as  they  do  in 
I  would  dodge  that  which  was  far  aw 
to  bump  into  objects  quite  near  me. 

r.^1  ^  tT""*  °"  ''''''  ^  ''="'  '  "'"""  °'  *^°  of  bewilder- 
ment. There  were  so  many  men  more  helpless  than  I 
that  whatever  care  there  was  to  give  was  naturally  be- 
stowed on  them.  Moreover,  most  of  those  who  thronged 
the  top  of  the  gangway  had  too  many  anxieties  of  their 

bZ/H-r*'?  *  f-T'"  ^^°  ^*  '^""^  ^^-^  only  half 
blmd  didn't  know  which  way  to  turn. 

But  I  did  tum-at  a  venture.     The  venture  took  me 

"rusher"  '  """r  ''""'"^  =■  ''^'''y  '"  ''-  =•""»•  -horn 
i  crushed  agamst  the  nearest  cabin  wall.     The  woman 

protested;    the  baby  screamed.     I  was  about,  in  the  re" 

vSm  /  t""^  ^""^^  ""^  ^y  '^^  ="™-     An  almost  in- 

visible guide  began  to  pilot  me  through  the  crowd.  AH 
1  caught  sight  of  was  a  Canadian  nurse's  uniform 

It  .s  one  of  the  results  of  the  war  that  men,  who  are 
often  reduced  to  the  mere  shreds  of  human  nature,  grow 

mam  the  able-bodied  ones. 

along  slightly  m  advance.  "You  caught  me  right  in  the 
nick  ot  time.     I  can  see  pretty  well  with  my  good  eye, 

cote'bne^rsT"  '''"='"^"-     ''''''  *^"  ■"'  ^''«  ^•" 

nnvT,!,*''""^''  "^""^'^^  '"'*''  °*«'  thoughts,  I  was  sur- 
pnsed  that  my  rescuer  didn't  respond  to  my  civility,  for 
another  result  of  the  war  is  the  ease  with  which  the  men 
and  women  who  have  been  engaged  in  it  get  on  term,  of 


m\ 


1.  il 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

natural  acquaintanceship.  When  ardficial  barriers  are 
removed,  it  is  extraordinary  how  quickly  we  go  back  to 
primitive  human  simplicity.  Social  and  sex  considera- 
tions have  thus  been  minimized  to  a  degree  which,  it 
seems  to  me,  will  make  it  difficult  ever  to  re-establish 
them  in  their  old  first  place.  They  say  it  was  an  advance 
in  civilization  when  we  ceased  to  see  each  other  as  pri- 
marily males  and  females  and  knew  we  were  men  and 
women.  Porsibly  the  war  will  lead  us  a  step  farther 
still  and  reveal  us  as  children  of  one  family. 

That  a  niir^e  shouldn't  have  a  friendly  word  for  a  partly 
incapacitated  man  struck  me,  therefore,  as  odd,  though 
my  mind  would  not  have  dwelt  on  the  circumstance  if 
she  hadn't  released  my  arm  as  abruptly  as  she  had  taken 
it.  Having  helped  me  to  reach  a  comparatively  empty 
quarter  of  the  deck,  she  had  counted,  apparently,  on  the 
slowness  and  awkwardness  of  my  movements  to  slip 
away  before  I  could  turn  round. 

When  I  managed  this  feat  she  was  already  some  yards 
down  the  length  of  the  deck,  hurrying  back  toward  the 
crowd  from  which  we  had  emerged.  I  saw  then  that  she 
was  too  little  to  be  tail  and  too  tall  to  be  considered  little. 
Moreover,  she  carried  herself  proudly,  placing  her  dainty 
feet  daintily,  and  walking  with  that  care  which  people 
display  when  they  are  not  certain  of  their  ability  to  walk 
straight.  Reaching  one  of  the  entrances,  she  went  in, 
exactly  as  I  had  seen  a  woman  pass  through  a  doorway 
two  years  four  months  and  three  weeks  before. 

I  was  sure  it  was  she— and  yet  I  told  myself  it  couldn't 
be.  I  told  myself  it  couldn't  be,  for  the  reason  that  I 
had  been  deceived  so  frequently  before  that  I  had  grown 
distrustful  of  my  senses.  All  through  the  intervening 
time  I  had  been  getting  glimpses  of  a  slight  figure  hei*> 
218 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

of  an  alert  movement  there,  of  the  poise  of  a  head,  of 
the  wave  of  a  hand— that  for  an  instant  would  make  my 
heart  stop  beating;  but  in  the  end  it  had  meant  nothing 
but  the  stirring  of  old  memories.  In  this  case  I  could 
_  have  been  convinced  if  the  coincidence  had  not  put  too 
great  a  strain  on  all  the  probabilities. 

I  was  to  learn  later  that  there  was  no  coincidence;  but 
I  must  tell  my  story  in  its  right  order. 

The  right  order  takes  me  back  to  my  return  to  New 
York,  after  my  week-end  at  Mrs.  Grace's,  on  the  morning 
of  June  29,  1914. 

During  the  two  or  three  hours  of  jogging  down  the 
length  of  Long  Island  in  the  train  I  tried  to  keep  out  of 
my  mind  all  thoughts  but  one;  having  deposited  my  bags 
at  my  rooms,  I  should  go  to  Stinson's. 

With  regard  to  this  intention  I  was  clearly  aware  of 
a  threefold  blend  of  reaction. 

First,  there  was  the  pity  of  it.  I  could  take  a  detached 
view  of  this  downfall,  just  as  if  I  hid  heard  of  it  in  con- 
necrion  with  Beady  Lamont  or  old  Colonel  Straight. 
Though  I  should  be  only  a  man  dropped  in  the  ranks, 
while  they  would  have  been  leaders,  the  grief  of  my  com- 
rades over  my  collapse  would  be  no  less  sincere. 

But  by  tearing  my  mind  away  from  that  aspect  of  the 
case  I  reverted  to  the  satisfaction  at  being  in  the  gutter, 
of  which  the  memories  had  never  ceased  to  haunt  me.  I 
cannot  expect  to  make  you,  who  have  always  lived  on 
the  upper  levels,  understand  this  temptation;  I  can  only 
tell  you  that  for  men  who  have  once  been  outside  the 
moral  law  there  is  a  recurrent  tugging  at  the  senses  to 
get  there  again.  I  once  knew  an  Englishman  who  had 
lived  in  the  interior  of  Australia  and  had  "gone  black." 
On  his  return  to  make  his  home  in  England  he  was  seized 
219 


THE   CITY   OF   COMRADES 

with  so  consuming  a  nostalgia  for  his  black  wives  and 
black  children  that  in  the  end  he  went  back  to  them. 
Something  like  this  was  the  call  I  was  always  hearing — 
the  call  of  Circe  to  go  down. 

But  I  knew,  too,  that  there  was  method  in  this  mad- 
ness. I  was  deliberately  starting  out  to  earn  the  wages 
of  sin;  and  the  wages  of  sin  would  be  death.  I  must 
repeat  that  going  to  Stinson's«would  be  no  more  than 
a  slow,  convenient  process  of  committing  suicide.  It 
would  be  committing  suicide  in  a  way  for  which  Regina 
Barry  would  not  have  to  feel  herself  responsible,  as  she 
would  A  ere  I  to  use  the  revolver.  Having  brought  so 
much  on  her,  I  war  unwilling  to  bring  more,  even  though 
my  heart  was  hot  against  her. 

My  heart  was  hot  against  her— and  yet  I  had  to  admit 
that  she  had  been  within  her  rights.  When  all  was 
\aid  that  could  be  said  in  my  favor,  I  had  deceived  her. 
I  had  let  her  go  on  for  the  best  part  of  a  year  believing 
me  to  be  what  i  was  not,  when  during  much  of  the  time 
I  could  see  that  such  a  belief  was  growing  perilous  to  her 
happiness.  I  had  been  a  coward.  I  should  have  said 
from  the  first  moment— the  moment  when  she  took  me 
for  my  brother  Jack— "I  am  a  crook."  Then  all  would 
have  been  open  and  aboveboard  between  us;  but  as  it 
was  there  was  only  one  way  out.  Any  other  way— any 
way  that  would  have  allowed  me  to  go  on  living  longer 
than  the  time  it  would  take  drink  to  kill  me— would  have 
been  unbearable. 

The  checkmate  to  these  musings  came  when  my  eyes 
fell  upon  Lovey.  He  was  at  the  door  of  the  apartment, 
not  only  to  welcome  me,  but  to  give  me  ocular  demon- 
stration that  he  had  kept  the  faith  while  I  had  been  away. 
It  was  the  first  time  since  the  beginning  of  our  associa- 
220 


THE   CITY  OF  COMRADES 

tion  that  I  had  left  him  for  forty-eight  hours;  and  that 
he  was  on  his  honor  during  those  two  days  was  no  secret 
between  us.  The  radiant  triumph  of  his  greeting  struck 
into  me  like  a  stab. 

For  Lovey  now  was  almost  as  completely  reconstructed 
as  I.  I  use  the  qualifying  "almost"  only  because  the 
longer  standing  of  his  habits  and  the  harder  conditions 
of  his  life  had  burnt  the  past  more  indelibly  into  him. 
Of  either  of  us  one  could  say,  as  the  Florentines  are  re- 
ported to  have  said  of  Dante,  "There  goes  a  man  who  has 
been  in  hell";  but  the  marks  of  the  experience  had  been 
laid  more  brutally  on  my  companion  than  on  me. 

Otherwise  he  showed  cheering  signs  of  resuscitation. 
Neat,  even  at  the  worst  of  times,  he  was  now  habitually 
scrubbed  and  shaved,  and  as  elegant  as  Colonel  Straight's 
establishment  could  turn  him  out.  He  had,  in  fact,  for 
the  hours  he  had  free  from  washing  windows,  metamor- 
phosed himself  into  the  typical,  self-respecting  English 
valet,  with  a  pride  in  his  work  sprung  chiefly  of  devotion. 
And  for  me  he  made  a  home.  I  mean  by  that  that  he 
was  always  there — something  living  to  greet  me,  to  move 
about  in  the  dingy  little  apartment.  As  I  am  too  gre- 
garious, I  may  say  too  affectionate,  to  live  contentedly 
alone,  it  meant  much  to  me  to  have  some  one  else  within 
the  walla  I  called  mine,  even  if  actual  companionship 
was  limited. 

But  whatever  it  was,  I  was  about  to  destroy  it.  I  could 
scarcely  look  him  in  the  eyes;  I  could  hardly  say  a  word 
to  him. 

While  unpacking  my  suit-case  he  said,  timorously, 
"Y'ain".  sick,  Slim?" 

I  began  to  change  the  suit  I  had  been  wearing  for  one 
that  would  attract  less  attention  at  Stinson's. 
221 


K 


li'i^- 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

"No,  Lovey;  I'm  all  right.  I'm  juit— I'm  JHtt  goiii( 
out." 

And  I  went  out.  I  went  out  without  bidding  the  poor 
old  fellow  good-by,  though  I  knew  it  was  the  last  the 
anxious  pale-blue  eyes  would  see  of  me  in  that  phase  of 
comradeship.  When  next  we  met  I  should  probably  be 
drunk,  and  he  would  have  come  to  get  drunk  in  my 
company.  It  would  then  be  a  question  as  to  which  of 
us  would  hold  out  the  longer. 

And  that  was  the  thought  that  after  an  hour  or  two 
turned  me  back.  I  could  throw  my  own  life  away,  but  I 
couldn't  throw  away  his.  However  reckless  I  might  be 
on  my  own  account,  I  couldn't  be  so  when  I  held  another 
man's  fate  in  my  hand. 

Even  so,  I  didn't  go  back  at  once.    Half-way  to  San- 
son's— I  was  on  foot — I  came  to  a  sudden  halt.    It 
was   as   if  the   sense   of  responsibility  toward   Lovey 
wouldn't  allow  me  to  go  any  farther.     I  said  to  my- 
self that  I  must  think  the  matter  out — that  I  must 
find    and   would    find   additional  justification    for   my 
course  before  going  on. 
To  do  that  I  turned  into  a  chance  hotel. 
I  like  the  wide  hospitality  of  American  hotels,  where 
any  tired  or  lonesome  wayfarer  can  enter  and  sit  down. 
I  have  never  been  a  clubman.    Clubs  ate  too  elective 
and  selective  for  my  affinities;    they  are  too  threshed 
and  winnowed  and  refined.    I  have  never  in  spirit  had 
any  desire  to  belong  to  a  chosen  few,  since  not  only  in 
heart,  but  in  tastes  and  temperament,  I  belong  to  the 
unchosen  many.     I  enjoy,  therefore,  the  freedom  and 
promiscuity  of  the  lobby,  where  every  Tom,  Dick,  and 
Hariy  has  the  same  right  as  I. 
Annoyed  by  the  fact  that  a  halt  had  been  called  in  my 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

errand  i  f  self-dettniction,  I  began  to  aik  myself  why. 
The  only  answer  that  came  to  me  was  that  this  old  man, 
this  old  reprobate,  if  one  chose  to  c:  .  him  so,  cared  for 
me.  He  had  been  giving  me  an  affection  that  prompted 
him  to  the  most  vital  sacrifice,  to  the  most  difficult  kind 
of  self-control. 

Then  suddenly  that  truth  came  back  to  me  which 
Andrew  Christian  had  pointed  out  a  few  months  earlier, 
and  which  in  the  mean  time  had  grown  dim,  that  any 
true  love  is  of  God. 

I  was  startled.  I  was  awed.  In  saying  these  things  I 
am  trying  only  to  tell  you  what  happened  in  my  inner 
self;  and  possibly  when  a  man's  inner  self  has  plumbed 
the  depths  like  mine  it  means  more  to  him  to  get  a  bit 
of  insight  than  it  does  to  you  who  have  always  been  on 
the  level.  In  any  case  this  question  rose  within  me: 
Was  it  possible  that  out  of  this  old  man,  this  drunkard, 
this  murderer,  cast  off  by  his  children,  cast  out  by  men, 
some  feeble  stream  was  welling  up  toward  me  from  that 
pure  and  holy  fountain  that  is  God?  Was  it  possible  that 
this  strayed  creature  had,  through  what  he  was  giving 
me — me  I — been  finding  his  way  back  to  the  universal 
heart?  If  ever  a  human  being  had  been  dwelling  in  love 
he  had  been  dwelling  in  it  for  a  year  and  more;  and 
there  were  the  words,  distilled  out  of  the  consciousness 
of  the  ages,  and  written  for  all  time,  "He  that  dwelleth 
in  love  dwelleth  in  God."  Was  it  God  that  this  poor, 
purblind  old  fellow  had  all  unconsciously  been  bringing 
me,  shedding  round  us,  keeping  us  straight,  making  us 
strong,  making  us  prosperous,  helping  us  to  light  our 
way  upward? 

I  went  back. 

But  on  the  way  I  had  another  prompting — one  that 
233 


ii: 


Itl 


THE   CITY   OF   COMRADES 

took  me  into  the  office  of  a  touritt  company  to  coniult 
time-tablei  and  buy  tickeu. 

"Lovey,"  I  said,  when  I  got  home,  "we  mu«  both 
begin  packing  for  all  we're  worth.  We're  leaving  for 
Montreal  to-night." 

"Coin*  to  see  your  people.  Slim,  and  stay  in  that  swell 
hotel?" 

"Not  just  now,  Lovey.  Later,  perhaps.  First  of  ail 
we're  going  for  a  month  into  the  woods  north  of  the 
Ottawa." 

His  jaw  dropped.    "Into  the  woods?" 

"Yes,  old  sport.     You'll  like  it." 

"Oh  no,  I  won't.  Slim.  I  never  was  in  no  woods  in 
my  life — except  London  and  New  York.  There's  one 
thing  I  never  could  abide,  -jnd  that's  trees." 

"You  won't  say  that  v ! ^.-n  you've  seen  real  trees. 
We'll  shoot  and  fish  and  camp  out — " 

"Camp  out?  In  a  tent,  like?  Oh,  I  couldn't,  sonny  I 
I'd  ketch  me  death!" 

"Thf^n  if  you  do  we'll  come  back;  only,  we've  got  to 
go  now." 

"Why  have  we?  It's  awful  nice  here  in  New  York; 
and  I  don't  pay  no  attention  to  people  that  says  it's 
too  hot." 

I  made  the  appeal  which  I  knew  he  would  not  resist. 
Laying  my  hand  on  his  shoulder,  I  said:  "Because,  old 
man,  I'm — I'm  in  trouble.  I  want  to  get  away  where — 
where  I  sha'n't  see — some  one — again — and  I  need  you." 

"It  ain't  that  girl.  Slim?  She — she  haven't  turned 
you  down?" 

The  words  took  me  so  much  by  surpri.^e  that  I  hadn  t 
time  to  get  angry.  All  I  could  feel  was  a  foolish,  nervous 
kind  of  coolness. 


THE   CITY   OF   COMRADES 

"Lovey,  what  I  want  you  to  know  I'll  tell  you;  and  at 
pre»ent  I'm  telling  you  thii:  I've  got  to  get  out;  I've 
got  to  get  out  quick;  and  I  need  you  to  buck  me  up. 
No  one  can  buck  me  up  like  you." 

"Oh,  if  it's  that!"  He  would  have  followed  me  then 
to  places  more  dreadful  than  the  Canadian  woods.  "Will 
you  take  all  your  suits— or  only  just  them  new  summer 
things?" 


I 


CHAPTER  xrm 


ii 


n 


■Ii  I 


'T^HUS  it  happened  that  when  war  broke  out  I  wai 
*■  deep  in  the  wildetneii.  For  more  than  a  month  I 
had  had  no  contact  with  the  outside  world,  not  a  letter, 
not  a  newspaper.  I  had  escaped  from  New  York  with- 
out leaving  an  address,  since  Cantyre  was  absent.  I  had 
meant  to  write  to  him  to  have  my  letters  forwarded, 
but  I  never  had.  Could  I  have  guessed  that  war  was  to 
i>egin  and  to  last  so  long  I  might  have  r.cted  differently; 
but  the  name  of  Gavrilo  Prinzip  was  still  meaningless. 
All  sportsmen  in  my  part  of  Canada  know  Jack  Hiller's, 
just  as  frequenters  of  the  Adirondacks  know  Paul  Smith's. 
From  Jack  Hiller's  we  struck  farther  in,  to  the  rude  camp 
where  I  had  spent  many  a  happy  holiday  when  I  was  a 
lad.  Two  guides,  an  Indian  and  a  half-breed,  did  the 
heavy  work;  and  some  long-forgotten,  atavistic  sporting 
strain  in  Lovey  allowed  him,  groaningly  and  discontent- 
edly, to  enjoy  himself. 

But  if  I  expected  to  find  peace  I  saw  I  was  mistaken. 
The  distance  I  had  put  between  myself  and  the  house 
dominating  Long  Island  Sound  was  only  geographical. 
In  spirit  I  was  always  back  on  that  veranda,  living 
through  again  the  minutes  of  the  long  waiting.  So  the 
solitude  was  no  solitude  for  me.  And  then  one  day  the 
half-breed's  canoe  shot  over  the  waters  of  the  lake,  bring- 
ing supplies  from  Jack  Hiller's,  with  the  news  that  the 
world  had  gone  to  war. 

226 


THE   CITY   OF   COMRADES 

I  wonder  how  many  hundreds  of  thouiandt  of  men 
and  women  there  are  to  whom  the  war  came  ai  a  bleticd 
opportunity  to  get  away  from  uieleunesi  or  heartache. 
Stranded,  purpoieleii,  ipiritleu,  futile,  tired,  empty,  with 
something  broken  in  the  life  or  seemingly  at  an  end,  they 
suddenly  found  themselves  called  on  to  put  forth  energies 
they  never  knew  they  had,  to  meet  needs  they  had  never 
heard  of. 

"Son  of  man,  can  these  dry  bones  live?"  one  might 
have  been  asking  oneself  a  few  years  previously;  and  all 
at  once  there  were  multitudes,  multitudes  in  the  valley 
of  decision,  energized  into  newness  of  being.  Among 
them  I  was  only  one  humble,  stupid  individual;  but  the 
summons  was  like  that  which  came  to  the  dust  when  it 
was  bidden  to  be  Adam  and  a  man. 

I  have  no  intention  of  telling  you  in  detail  what  hap- 
pened to  me  between  that  August  morning  in  1914  and  the 
day  I  stepped  on  board  the  boat  at  Liverpool  more  than 
two  years  later.  There  is  no  need.  You  know  the  out- 
lines of  that  tale  already.  My  case  hardly  differed  ex- 
ternally from  any  other  of  the  millions  of  cases  you  have 
heard  about.  The  machine  of  war  does  not  vary  in  its 
working  much  more  than  any  other  machine,  except  for 
the  drama  played  in  each  man's  soul. 

And  of  that  I  can  say  nothing.  I  don't  know  why — 
but  I  cannot.  Day  and  night  I  think  of  what  I  saw  and 
heard  and  did  in  those  two  years,  but  some  other  lan- 
guage must  be  coined  before  I  can  begin  to  speak  of  it. 

In  this  I  am  not  singular;  it  is  a  rule  to  which  I  know 
few,  if  any,  exceptions.  I  have  heard  returned  soldiers 
on  the  lecture  platform,  telling  part  of  the  truth,  and 
nothing  but  the  truth,  but  never  the  whole  truth  nor 
the  most  vital  truth.  I  have  talked  with  some  of  them 
227 


w 


li'l 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

when  the  lecturet  were  over,  and  a.  flan  in  the  eye  ha* 
•aid,  "This  is  for  public  consumption;  but  you  and  I 
know  that  the  realities  are  not  to  be  put  into  words." 

One  little  incident  I  must  give  you,  however,  before  I 
revert  to  what  happened  on  the  boat. 

Having  in  that  early  August  made  my  way  to  Ottawa 
with  Lovey,  and  decided  that  I  must  respond  at  once  to 
the  country's  call,  I  expected  a  struggle  with  him,  or 
something  bitter  in  the  way  of  protest.  But  in  this  I  was 
mistaken.  He,  too,  had  been  thinking  the  matter  over, 
and,  hard  as  it  would  be  for  him  to  see  me  do  it,  that  quiet 
valor  which  practically  no  Englishman  is  without  raised 
him  at  once  to  the  level  of  his  part. 
^  "All  right.  Slim.  It's  yer  dooty  to  go,  and  mine  to 
give  ye  up.    We  won't  say  no  more  about  that." 

"Thanks,  Lovey,  for  making  it  so  easy  for  me.  I'll 
never  forget  it  as  long  as  I  live.  Now  there's  only  one 
thing—" 

"If  it's  about  me  goin'  straight,  sonny,  while  ye'm 
away,  I'll  swear  to  God  not  to  look  so  much  as  on  the 
•ame  side  o'  the  street  as  a  drop  o'  liquor  till  He  bring* 
ye  back  to  me." 
"Then  I  believe  He  will  bring  me  back,  old  fellow." 
"  Sure  He'll  bring  ye  back.    Ye'U  be  'ome  before  Christ- 
,  mas;    and.  Slim,  if  it  isn't  goin'  to  cost  ye  too  much 
money,  won't  ye  'old  on  to  them  rooms  so  as  I  can  keep 
our  little  place  together,  like,  and  'ave  it  all  clean  and 
nice  for  you — ?" 

Having  consented  to  this,  I  was  able  to  make  further 
provision  for  the  old  man  when  Cantyre  joined  me  for  a 
day  or  two  in  Montreal  to  bid  me  good-by.  Love/s  hero- 
ism was  the  sort  of  thing  to  draw  out  Cantyre's  sentimen- 
tal vein  of  approvaL 

328 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

"III  take  him  and  look  after  him,  Frank.  He'll  valet 
me  till  you  come  back.  I've  always  wanted  a  man  to  do 
diat  sort  of  thing,  and  only  haven't  had  one  because  I 
thought  it  would  look  like  putting  on  side.  But  now  that 
he  drops  down  to  me  out  of  heaven,  as  you  might  say, 
^11  take  him  as  a  souvenir  of  you." 


N 


CHAPTER  XIX 

ALL  these  interests  had  seemed  far  away  from  me 
^  during  the  two  and  a  half  years  over  there;  but  in 
proportion  as  I  drew  near  Liverpool  that  morning  they 
reformed  themselves  in  the  mists  of  the  near  future,  as 
old  memories  come  back  with  certain  scents  and  scenes. 
Not  till  the  damp,  smoky  haze  of  the  great  port  was  clos- 
ing in  round  me  did  I  realize  that  my  more  active  part 
in  the  vast  cosmic  episode  was  at  an  end,  and  that  I 
had  come  to  t)ie  hour  I  had  so  often  longed  for — and  was 
going  home. 

I  was  going  home;  and  yet,  for  the  minute,  at  any 
rate,  I  was  not  glad.  There  is  always  something  painful 
in  the  taking  up  again  of  forsaken  ties,  however  much  we 
once  loved  them.  It  was  like  a  repetition  of  the  effort 
with  which  I  had  renewed  my  relations  with  my  people. 
The  actual  has  a  way  of  seizing  us  in  its  tentacles  and 
making  us  feel  that  it  is  the  only  life  we  ever  truly  led. 
There  was  a  time  when  I  seemed  to  forget  that  I  had  ever 
been  anywhere  but  in  the  trenches.  During  the  month 
or  two  that  I  was  blind  I  got  so  used  to  the  condition  as 
to  find  it  strange  that  I  had  ever  seen.  And  always,  in 
face  of  the  fierce  intensity  of  the  present,  the  life  in  New 
York  was  remote,  shadowy,  and  dim,  as  they  say  the 
life  in  prison  becomes  from  its  very  monotony  to  those 
<who  look  back  on  it  after  their  release. 

What  it  really  amounted  to  was  that  during  those  two 
230 


THE   CITY   OF   COMRADES 


yean  I  seemed  to  have  grown  in  the  size  of  my  mental 
conceptions.  Having  been  hurled  into  an  odstence  gigan- 
tic, monstrous,  in  which  there  were  no  limits  to  either  the 
devotion  or  the  cruelty  of  human  beings  toward  one 
another,  all  other  ways  of  living  had  grown  pale  and 
small.  If  you  can  imagine  yourself  swirling  through 
space,  riding  both  zephyrs  and  tempests  equally  as  a 
matter  of  course,  you  can  understand  how  tame  it  would 
seem  to  be  tied  down  to  earth  again,  to  go  at  nothing 
more  stimulating  than  a  walking  pac«.  Otherwise  typi- 
fied, a  lion  that  has  been  in  a  cage,  and  after  two  and  a 
half  years  of  free  roving  in  the  jungle  finds  itself  returned 
to  the  cage  again,  would  probably  have  the  same  sink- 
ing of  the  heart  as  I  when  I  saw  the  hulk  of  the  Assini- 
boia  loom  up  before  me  in  the  dock. 

And  then  came  that  odd  little  incident  of  the  nurse 
to  connect  me  with  the  past  by  a  new  form  of  excitement. 
I  have  to  confess  that  it  was  excitement  largely  com- 
pounded of  wonder  and  distress.  A  dull  ache  told  me 
that  sensation  was  returning  to  a  deadened  nerve,  and 
that  where  I  had  supposed  there  was  paralysis  at  least 
there  was  going  to  be  reaction  and  perhaps  a  pang. 

For  by  this  time  I  had  passed  through  that  process 
idiich  is  commonly  known  as  "getting  over  it."  That 
is,  a  new  self  was  living  a  new  life  on  a  new  plane  of 
existence.  All  that  belonged  to  the  period  before  I  went 
to  enlist  at  Ottawa  was  on  the  other  side  of  a  flood.  I 
had  not  precisely  forgotten;  I  had  only  died  and  become 
a  transmigrated  soul.  Whatever  was  past  was  past.  I 
might  suffer  from  it;  I  might  feel  its  consequences;  but 
I  couldn't  live  it  again.  On  the  other  hand,  I  was  living 
vividly  in  the  present.  Not  so  much  consciously  or  by 
word  as  because  I  couldn't  help  it,  I  had  merged  eveiy- 
"3 1 


Ml 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

thing  I  wai  into  one  dominating  purpose  with  which,  a* 
far  as  I  was  aware,  Regina  Barry  had  nothing  to  do.- 
The  aims  for  which  the  war  was  being  fought  were  my 
aims;  I  had  no  others.  When  these  objectives  were  won , 
my  Hfe,  it  seemed  to  me,  would  be  over.  It  would  melt '. 
away  in  that  victory  as  dawn  into  sunrise.  It  would 
not  be  lost;  it  would  only  be  absorbed — a  spark  in  the 
blaze  of  noonday. 

So  mentally  I  was  pressing  forward.  Though  I  could 
do  no  more  fighting,  I  had  been  told  that  there  was  still 
work  by  which  I  could  contribute  to  the  object  beside 
which  no  other  object  could  be  taken  into  consideration. 
I  was  being  sent  back  for  that  reason.  Not  much  had 
been  xold  me  as  yet  about  what  I  was  to  do,  but  I  under- 
stood that  it  was  to  be  in  connection  with  American  pub- 
lic opinion.  It  will  be  temembered  that  at  the  end  of 
1916  the  United  States  was  not  only  not  in  the  war,  but 
it  was  still  doubtful  as  to  whether  or  not  she  ever  would 
be.  The  hand  of  a  cautious  listener  being  on  the  pulse 
of  a  patient  people,  it  was  on  the  beat  of  that  pulse  that 
the  issue  turned. 

I  understood  that,  with  my  acquaintance  ranging  among 
high  and  low,  I  was  to  do  what  I  could  to  make  the  pulse 
a  little  quicker.  I  might  not  be  able  to  do  much,  but 
we  had  all  learned  the  value  of  small  individual  contribu- 
tions. It  was  argued  that  in  proportion  as  the  American 
people  began  to  see  on  which  side  the  balance  of  right- 
eousness dipped,  my  game  leg  and  my  black  patch, 
and  the  haggardness  and  gauntness  and  batteredness  of 
my  whole  appearance,  would  have  some  appeal.  The 
appeal  would  be  the  stronger  for  the  fact  that  I  was  not 
an  Englishman,  but  a  Canadian — blood-brother  to  the 
man  of  his  own  continent,  blood-brother  to  the  Briton, 
232 


THE   CITY   OF   COMRADES 

blood-brother  to  the  Frenchman,  blood-son  of  the  great 
ideals  fathered  by  the  Anglo-Saxon  race,  and  in  which  all 
free  peoples  in  the  course  of  two  hundred  years  had  been 
made  participants — and  quick  to  spring  to  their  defense. 
I  was  to  be,  therefore,  a  kind  of  unobtrusive,  unaccredited 
ambassador  to  the  man  in  the  office  and  the  street,  with 
instructions  to  be  inoffensive  but  persuasive. 

And  on  this  mission  all  my  conscious  thought  was  set. 
No  hermit  in  the  desert  was  ever  more  entirely  self- 
dedicated  to  the  saving  of  his  soul  than  I  to  the  quiet 
preaching  of  this  new  crisade  among  men  like  Ralph 
Coningsby  and  Stephen  Cantyre  and  Beady  Lamont  and 
Headlights  and  Daisy  and  Momma  and  Mouse,  and  any 
others  with  whom  I  should  come  in  contact.  In  fulfilling 
this  task  I  wanted  no  one  to  disturb  or  distract  me;  and 
here  at  the  very  outset  was  some  one  who  might  do  both. 

U 


II  » 


CHAPTER  XX 


i  w 


i  I 


AFTER  having  found  my  cabin  and  seen  to  my  be- 
'  longings  I  hobbled  up  on  deck  once  more,  to  verify 
my  vision  of  the  Canadian  nurse's  uniform.  I  discovered 
the  uniform  in  two  or  three  instances,  but  in  none  that 
corresponded  to  the  figure  too  little  to  be  tall  and  too  tall 
to  be  considered  little  I  had  watched  receding  down  the 
deck. 

As  for  the  costume  itself,  it  was  not  difficult  to  find 
myself  beside  one  of  the  ladies  who  wore  it — a  beautiful, 
grave  woman,  of  the  type  of  Bouguereau's  Consolatrice, 
who,  with  hands  resting  on  the  deck  rail,  was  looking  down 
at  the  movement  on  the  dock. 

"There  seem  to  be  a  number  of  nurses  going  back,"  I 
observed,  after  an  introductory  word  or  two. 

"There  are  three  in  our  party — myself  and  the  two 
over  there." 

The  two  over  there  were  two  I  had  already  seen, 
neither  of  them  being  my  pilot  of  a  half-hour  previously. 

"I  thought  I  saw  another,"  I  threw  off,  casually. 

"I  believe  there  is  one — an  American  girl  from  Lady 
Rideover's  hospital  at  Taplow." 

As  I  had  just  come  from  Lady  Rideover's  hospital  at 
Taplow,  and  Lady  Rideover  herself  was  my  sister,  I  sug- 
gested, without  mentioning  the  relationship,  that  in  this 
speculation  there  was  some  mistake. 

"She  may  not  have  come  directly  from  there,"  the 
*34 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 


Consolatrice  admitted;  "but  I  know  the  was  with  Lady 
Rideover  six  months  ago." 

"But  six  months  ago  I  was  with  Lady  Rideover 
myself." 

"Well,  she  was  there  then." 

"But  I  should  have  seen  her  if  she  had  been." 

She  turned  slowly  round  on  me,  with  deep,  kind  eyes. 
"Would  you?    You  could  see  all  the  time?" 

I  had  forgotten  that.  There  had  been  two  months 
when  I  hadn't  seen  at  all.  Any  one  might  have  come 
and  gone  during  that  time. 

Remarking  on  the  inconvenience  of  having  no  list  of 
passengers,  I  asked  my  companion  if  she  knew  the  young 
lady's  name. 

"No;  but  I  can  inquire  of  my  friends.  They  may 
know." 

Having  crossed  to  speak  to  the  nurses  on  the  other 
side  of  the  deck,  she  came  back  without  the  information. 

"But  Miss  Prynne,"  she  added,  "that's  the  short  one, 
says  that  the  young  lady  came  over  about  two  years  ago 
with  Lady  Rideover's  sister.  Miss  Melbury,  of  Montreal." 

I  withdrew  to  ponder.  I  had  been  in  continuous  if 
desultory  communication  with  my  sisters  during  all  my 
time  abroad,  and  no  mention  of  Regina  Barry  had  ever 
escaped  either.  I  had  not  supposed  that  they  knew  one 
another.  I  couldn't  bring  myself  to  believe  that  I  had 
been  under  the  same  roof  with  her  at  Taplow  and  had 
not  been  aware  of  it.  And  here  she  was  on  board  the  ship 
on  which  I  was  returning  home,  and  able  to  come  to  my 
aid  at  a  minute  when  I  wanted  help. 

I  had  often  wished  that  some  of  my  New  York  corre- 
spondents would  speak  of  her,  but  no  one  ever  had.  Ex- 
cept in  the  case  of  Cantyte  this  was  hardly  strange,  for — 
>35 


i: 


I 


ll 


'■  i 


THE   CITY   OF   COMRADES 

•pan  from  Hilda  Grace,  who  never  wrote  to  me — no 
one  knew  that  Regina  Barry  and  I  had  meant  anything 
to  each  other.  If  Cantyre  had  spoken  of  her,  it  would 
have  been  on  his  own  account;  but  confidential  as  he 
was  in  private  talk,  his  letters  were  never  more  than  a 
few  terse  lines.  So  I  had  rather  bitterly  imagined  her  as 
going  on  with  the  testing  of  other  men,  as  she  had  tested 
Jim  Hunter,  Cantyre,  and  m  —trying  them  and  finding 
them  wanting.  In  ungenerous  moments  I  went  so  far  as 
to  hope  that  Nemesis  might  overtake  her  in  some  tre- 
mendous passion  in  which  she  herself  would  be  tried  and 
toRFed  aside. 

It  was,  however,  the  second  day  out  before  I  actually 
came  face  to  face  with  her.  Her  absence  from  the  deck 
had  been  part  of  the  mystery.  Having  swung  into  the 
Mersey,  we  remained  there  all  Sunday  night — it  was  a 
Sunday  we  had  gone  on  board — and  much  of  Monday. 
Accepting  as  necessary  the  secrecy  which  in  war-time 
enshrouds  an  Atlantic  voyage,  the  passengers  had  made 
themselves  as  comfortable  as  the  conditions  permitted, 
and  taken  air  and  exercise  by  promenading  the  decks. 
There  could  have  been  no  better  opportunity  for  finding 
familiar  faces,  but,  apart  from  one  or  two  distant  ac- 
quaintances, I  saw  none.  The  three  nurses'  uniforms  I 
had  noted  already  were  continually  about;  but  I  never 
found  the  fourth. 

And  then  on  Tuesday,  after  we  had  lost  sight  of  the 
Irish  coast,  there  was  another  queer  little  incident.  As  I 
could  walk  but  little,  I  had  been  reading  in  the  music- 
room.  Tired  of  doing  that  and  eager  to  continue  my 
search  for  the  missing  uniform,  I  had  limped  to  the  door- 
way, screened  by  a  heavy  portiere,  leading  out  toward 
the  companionway.  But  while  I  stood  turning  up  the 
2';6 


THE   CITY   OF   COMRADES 

collar  of  my  overcoat  the  pordire  wa*  (uddenly  pulled 
atide,  and  we  were  before  each  other,  with  a  luggestion 
of  a  limilar  occurrence  three  and  a  half  yean  before. 

The  very  diiferences  in  my  appearance — the  mustache, 
the  patch  over  my  lefc  eye,  the  military  coat — must  have 
helped  to  recall  the  earlier  occasion  by  the  indirect  means 
of  contrast.  As  for  her,  she  was  what  she  had  seemed  to 
me  then — two  great  flaming  eyes.  They  were  tired  eye» 
now,  haunted,  tragic  perhaps,  and  I  saw  later  that  when 
you  caught  them  off  their  guard  they  were  pensive,  if 
not  mournful.  They  were,  indeed,  all  I  could  see  of  her, 
for  the  rest  of  her  features  were  hidden  by  the  veil  over 
the  lower  part  of  the  face  which  women  occasionally  copy 
from  the  Turkish  lady's  yashmak.  A  small  black  cap, 
held  by  a  jade-green  pin,  and  a  long,  shapeless  black 
ulster  or  coat  completed  a  costume  quite  unliLc;  the  uni- 
form for  which  I  had  been  looking. 

I  can  only  describe  that  encounter  as  the  meeting  of 
two  transmigrated  souls.  She  had  gone  as  far  in  her 
direction  as  I  in  mine;  but  I  couldn't  tell  at  a  glance  in 
what  direction  she  had  gone.  It  was  what  struck  me 
dumb.  When  Paolo  and  Francesca  met  in  space  they 
had  nothing  to  say  to  each  other  except  with  the  eyes. 
In  some  such  case  as  that  we  found  ourselves.  The 
pressure  of  topics  was  too  great  to  allow  of  immediate 
selection.  She  seemed  to  wait  for  me  to  utter  the  first 
word,  and  as  I  was  at  a  loss  she  dropped  the  portiere 
behind  her,  inclined  her  head,  and  passed  on  into  the 
saloon. 

Though  it  was  my  place  to  follow  her,  I  couldn't,  for 
the  minute,  take  so  obvious  a  course.     I  was  not  only 
too  mystified  by  what  I  had  heard  of  her,  but  too  con- 
fused as  to  our  standing  toward  each  other.    I  couldn't' 
237 


THE  CJTY  OF  COMRADES 

begin  with  .•."How  do  you  dor  u  if  we  had  parted  on 
the  <»dina(y,iaci4  ttcmi,  while  anything  more  dramatic 
would  Itsve  been  abaurd.  Hobbling  along  the  deck,  I 
took  r^uge  .in  the  tmoking-room  in  order  to  reflect. 

Reflection  wa»  not  ea»y.  Over  it»  calm  fielda  emotion 
•pread  iik«  water  through  a  broken  dike.  For  two  and  a 
half  y^v*  the  .emotional  had  been  so  stemmed  and 
banked. and, ^wnmed  in  me  that  I  had  thought  it  under 
coptipl  forever.  I  had  had  enough  to  do  in  giving  orders 
or  carrying  them  out.  But,  now  that  the  reprised  had 
broken  it(  bounds  again,  the  tide  swept  everything  away 
with  it. .     . 

Not  that  I  knew  just  what  I  was  experiencing;  on  the 
contrary,  I  couldn't  have  disentangled  the  element  of 
anger  fnvp.that  of  curiosity,  nor  that  of  curiosity  from 
that  of  joy.  All  I  could  say  for  certain  was  that  never 
in  ray  life  had  1  been  so  anxious  to  keep  free;  never  had 
I  so  mu<:h  needed  concentration  and  single-mindedness. 
The  task  to  which  I  had  vowed  my  undivided  energy 
and  heart  demanded  a  genuine  celibacy  of  the  will;  and 
now  of  all  the  women  in  the  world  . . . 

I  wa;  working  on  this  train  of  thought  when  I  became 
aware  that  people  were  running  along  the  deck.  Glan- 
cing about  me  at  the  same  moment,  I  saw  I  was  alone  in 
the  smoking-room.  A  whistle  blew,  piercingly,  alarm- 
ingly. By  the  time  I  had  struggled  to  my  feet  the  ship 
changed  her  course  so  sharply  as  to  throw  me  against 
a  chair. 

I  knew  what  it  was,  of  co'irse.  We  had  been  talking 
of  the  possibility  ever  since  ■;  left  the  Mersey.  How- 
ever much  we  tried  to  keep  the  mind  away  from  the  sub- 
ject, it  came  back  to  it,  as  a  mischievous  boy  makes 
suaight  for  the  thing  forbidden  him. 
139 


THE   CITY  OF  COMRADES 

My  fint  thoii|)it  wm  lor  the  (id  in  the  yashmak.  I 
nutt  find  her.  lee  the  had  a  life-belt,  and  take  her  to  her 
boat.  Before  I  had  Krambled  to  the  door,  however,  it 
flew  open,  apparently  of  iti  own  accord,  while  a  wild 
nor'wetter  positively  blew  the  young  lady  in. 

It  also  blew  away  anything  like  Paolo-and-France*ca 
sentiiiieiit. 

"Oh,  here  you  aret"  she  exclaimed,  breathlessly. 
"I've  been  hunting  for  you  everywhere.  They  say  we've 
aighted  a  periscope.    Take  this  and  put  it  on." 

Of  the  two  life-belts  she  carried  she  flung  one  to  me, 
beginning  to  fasten  the  other  about  herself. 

"But  the  one  you've  brought  me  must  belong  to  some 
one  else,"  I  objected,  as  I  aided  her.  "  I've  got  one  of  my 
own  in  my  cabin.     I'll  just  run  down — " 

She  brushed  this  aside.  "No;  this  is  yours.  I  went 
and  got  it." 

"You — "  I  began  in  astonishment. 

"I'm  a  nurse — or  a  kind  of  one,"  she  said,  hastily. 
"That's  what  I'm  here  for." 

"But  you  knew  where  my  cabin  was?" 

"I  found  out.    Oh,  hurry— please!" 

She  helped  me  as  a  medieval  lady  might  have  helped 
her  lord  to  buckle  on  his  sword;  and  presently  we  were 
out  on  deck. 

As  we  had  twice  already  drilled  in  the  unsightly  things, 
we  had  lost  the  sense  of  the  grotesque  appearance  pre- 
sented by  ourselves  and  our  fellow-travelers.  Besides, 
we  were  too  eager  to  descry  the  periscope  to  have  any 
more  thought  of  ourselves  than  a  wild  duck  of  how  it 
looks  when  skimming  away  from  a  sniper.  Indeed,  it 
was  chiefly  of  a  hunted  wild  duck  that  our  zigzagging 
boat  reminded  me. 

339 


^;i 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

It  WM  a  niUen  day,  with  that  acudding  of  low,  (ray 
douda  which  kwka  ai  if  the  heavena  wen  haatening  to  lome 
Annafeddon  of  their  own.  The  aea  had  hardly  got  over 
the  fwell  left  by  one  gale  when  it  wai  being  lathed  into 
fury  by  another.  The  Atsiniboia  pitched  and  rolled  and 
tore  through  the  watert  like  a  moniter  goaded  by  in- 
numerable ttingt.  I  ihould  have  found  it  next  to  im- 
ponible  to  itniggle  along  the  deck  had  my  protectren 
not  Kood  by  and  ateadied  me. 

There  wat  a  kind  of  fooliih  pretense  at  the  chivalroua 
in  my  tone  at  I  taid,  "I'll  jutt  tee  you  to  your  boat 
before  going  over  to  mine." 

"We're  in  the  tame  boat,"  the  antwered,  briefly.  "Do 
come  along." 

I  thought  of  my  forty-eight  hourt  of  unfruitful  search 
for  her. 

"But  I  didn't  tee  you  at  Number  Seven  when  we  diilled 
yesterday." 

"I'm  there  now,"  she  said,  with  the  same  brevity. 
Feeling,  apparently,  that  some  explanation  was  needed, 
the  went  on:  "I've —  I  mean  they — they've  changed 
me.  Miss  Prynne  has  let  me  have — or  rather  she's 
taken —  That  is,"  she  finished,  in  confusion,  "we're 
all  nuiaes  together — and  we've — ^we've  exchanged." 

In  spite  of  some  inward  observations,  I  spared  her  any 
other  comment  than  to  say,  "How  jolly  I"  as  if  the  ex- 
change had  been  the  most  matter-of-course  thing  in  the 
world. 

I  spoke  just  now  of  riding  tempests  and  zephyrs,  and 
something  like  that  it  was  to  plow  along  at  every  ounce 
of  steam,  with  cross  seas,  head  seas,  seas  abeam,  and 
seas  abaft,  as  each  new  zigzag  caught  them.  On  the 
roaring  of  the  wind  and  the  plunge  and  thunder  of  the 
240 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 


waves  one  rote  into  tegioM  of  tumultuouf  play  where  life 
and  death  were  the  ttaket.  I  aaw  no  lipit  of  fear,  and 
•till  leu  of  panic;  nor,  to  far  ai  the  eye  could  read,  any- 
thing more  than  a  (porting  excitement.  One  would  have 
laid  that  our  peril  wai  accepted  a«  being  all  in  the  game, 
part  of  the  day's  work.  By  the  end  of  1916  Atlantic 
travelers  had  come  to  take  the  submarine  for  granted, 
just  as  the  statesmen  of  Plantagenet  and  Tudor  timet 
took  the  headsman's  block  as  one  of  the  natural  risks 
of  going  into  politics. 

But  we  looked  instinctively  for  a  periscope.  It  is  not 
an  easy  thing  for  any  one  to  see,  and  for  me  it  was  more 
difficult  than  for  most.  I  saw  none;  or  I  saw  a  hundred. 
With  the  imperfect  vision  of  my  one  eye  the  crests  of  the 
billows  bristled  with  moving  four-inch  pipes;  and  then 
suddenly  all  would  disappear  and  I  saw  nothing  but  the 
waves  curling  upward  into  coronets  of  foam  with  veils 
of  trailing  lace. 

Not  that  I  was  worse  off  in  this  respect  than  my  fellow- 
travelers.  As  they  ran  for  their  boats  they  would  pause, 
take  a  hurried  look  at  the  seas,  exclaiming,  "There  it  is!" 
and  then,  more  doubtfully,  "No,  no!"  all  in  one  breath. 
The  "No,  no!"  was  generally  uttered  in  a  tone  of  disap- 
pointment, since  to  cross  the  ocean  and  sight  no  sub- 
marine would  have  been  like  journeying  through  Egypt 
and  missing  the  pyramids. 

And  yet  our  danger  was  apparent.  Only  a  fortnight 
before  the  Kamouraika,  sister  ship  to  the  Assiniboia,  had 
been  sent  to  the  bottom  in  these  very  waters,  with  great 
loss  of  life.  Of  the  tragedy  the  papers  had  given  us 
realistic  pictures  that  were  fresh  in  all  our  minds.  There 
was  a  preliminary  scene  on  board  not  unlike  the  one  ■vt 
were  enacting.  W«  saw  later  a  shell  bursting  on  the 
341 


i.i,. 


'll 


THE  CITY   OF   COMRADES 

Jeck,  lotnewhere  amidihipi.  We  taw  the  pauengert  and 
crew  taking  to  the  boats  with  thells  kicking  up  geyien 
among  them  as  they  tried  to  get  away.  We  saw  the  great 
ship  sticking  as  straight  up  out  of  the  water  as  a  Cleo- 
patra's Needle,  befoij  going  slowly  down.  We  saw  the 
U-boat  herself  lying  on  the  water  like  a  crocodile,  some 
four  thousand  yards  away;  we  saw  Queenstown  as  a 
morgue.  All  this  was  as  vividly  in  our  minds  as  a  re- 
hearsal to  the  actors  of  a  play;  and  yet  we  were  probably 
no  more  nervous  than  the  company  on  a  first  night  when 
the  curtain  is  going  up. 

The  word  went  round  that  it  was  the  fate  of  the  Kam- 
ouraska,  with  the  futility  of  her  surrender  as  a  means 
of  saving  the  passengers'  lives,  that  prompted  our  cap> 
tain  to  flight  and  fight.  Our  wireless  calls  were  undoubt.<> 
edly  going  up  and  down  the  Irish  coast  and  out  into  the 
ocean.  Within  an  hour  or  two,  if  we  could  hold  out  so 
long,  destroyers  would  be  rushing  to  our  rescue.  We 
had  nothing  to  be  terribly  afraid  of  with  mote  than  an 
imaginative  fear. 

That  imaginative  fear  was  quickened  by  the  seemingly 
maddened  acdon  of  our  ship.  I  can  best  describe  her  as 
a  leviathan  gone  insane.  If  insanity  were  to  overtake  a 
whale  it  would  probably  splash  the  deep  in  some  such 
frenzy  as  this — so  many  angles  out  of  the  course  one  way 
— then  a  violent  heeling  over — so  many  angles  out  of  the 
course  another  way — an3rway,  anywhere,  anything — to 
get  out  of  that  straight,  staid  line  from  port  to  port  which 
makes  an  ocean-going  ship  a  liner.  I  admit  that  in  this 
wild,  erratic  dashing  there  was  something  that  alanned 
us,  and  something,  too,  that  made  us  laugh.  It  was  the 
comic  side  of  madness,  in  which  you  can  hardly  see  the 
terrible  because  of  the  grotesque. 
342 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

By  the  time  we  reached  life-boat  No.  7  there  wen 
many  signs  that  neither  officers  nor  passengers  were  going 
to  take  more  chances  than  they  were  obliged  to.  At 
No.  5  on  one  side  of  us  a  young  officer  was  on  top,  peeling 
<^  the  tarpaulin  covering.  At  No.  9  on  the  other  side 
some  of  the  crew  were  already  moimted,  examining  sup- 
plies and  oars.  At  our  own  boat,  cranks  were  being 
fitted  to  the  davits  to  swing  the  boat  outward.  All  along 
the  line  similar  preparations  were  in  progress,  while  men 
and  women — luckily  we  had  no  children  on  board — carry- 
ing such  wraps  and  hand-bags  as  they  might  reasonably 
take,  stood  in  groups,  waiting  for  what  was  to  happen 
next. 

Our  view  of  the  sea  was  largely  cut  off  here  by  the 
bulk  of  the  life-boats,  though  wherever  tbere  was  a  chink 
there  was  also  a  cluster  of  heads.  So  many  saw  peri- 
scopes— and  so  many  didn't  see  them — that  it  became 
a  mild  joke.  In  general  we  surmised  that  if  a  U-boat 
was  cruising  round  us  at  all  she  had  only  been  porpoising 
— sticking  up  her  periscope  for  a  second  or  two  to  get  a 
look  round,  and  withdrawing  it  before  it  could  be  seen  by 
any  eye  not  dn  that  very  spot. 

The  girl  in  the  yashmak  and  I  arrived  so  late  on  the 
scene  that  there  were  no  places  left  by  the  rail,  and  we 
were  obliged  to  content  ourselves  with  second-hand  in- 
formation as  to  what  was  taking  place.  Our  excitement 
had,  therefore,  a  lack  of  point,  like  that  of  the  small  boy 
behind  the  line  of  grown-up  people  watching  a  procession. 
We  fell  back  in  the  end  into  a  kind  of  alcove,  where,  being 
partially  protected  from  wind  and  tumult,  we  could  speak 
to  each  other  without  shouting. 

I  took  the  opportunity  to  thank  her  for  her  kindness  to 
ne  when  I  came  on  board  on  Sunday;  but  with  my  openinr 
243 


THE   CITY   OF   COMRADES 

words  the  air  of  Francesca  meeting  Paolo  in  space  came 
over  her  again.  I  understood  her  to  say  that  her  help 
on  Sunday  was  a  little  thing,  that  she  would  have  given 
it  to  any  one. 

"Of  course,"  I  agreed,  "you  would  have  given  it  to 
any  one;  but  in  this  case  you  gave  it  to  me.  You  must 
allow  me  to  thank  you  before  anything  happens  that 
might— that  might  make  gratitude  too  late." 

As  I  think  of  her  now  I  can  see  that  she  was  mistress 
of  herself  in  the  way  that  a  letter-perfect  actress  is  mis- 
tress of  herself,  repeating  words  th«  have  been  learned 
to  fit  a  certain  situation.  She  had  foreseen  that  I  would 
say  something  of  the  kind;  she  had  foreseen  that  when  I 
did  she  might  be  a  prey  to  troublesome  emotions;  and 
so  had  fortified  herself  in  advance  by  a  studied  set 
of  phrases. 

"I'm  so  little  of  a  nurse  that  I  should  be  ashamed  not 
to  do  for  a  soldier  the  few  small  things  in  my  power." 

If  she  had  never  made  me  suffer  anything,  and  if  the 
moment  had  not  been  one  that  might  conceivably  end 
our  relations  forever,  I  should  probably  not  have  uttered 
the  words  that  came  to  me  next. 

"Was  it  only  because  I'm  a  soldiei^?" 

She  interrupted  skilfully.  "Only  because  you're  a  sol- 
dier? Isn't  a  soldier  the  most  splendid  man  in  the  world 
—especially  at  a  time  like  this?" 

BangI 

It  was  one  of  our  two  guns.  As  a  merchantman,  not 
built  to  withstand  the  concussion  of  cannon,  the  Assini- 
boia  shuddered. 

With  an  involuntary  start  my  companion  caught  me 
by  the  sleeve.  The  impulse  to  seize  her  hand  and  draw 
it  fently  within  my  ann  was  irresistible.    Had  I  reflected. 


ll 


/ 


THE  CITY  OF   COMRADES 

I  might  not  have  done  thit,  since  tny  dominant  detira 
was  to  keep  stripped  and  unencumbered  foi  the  race. 

She  allowed  me  to  retain  her  hand  just  long  enough 
to  show  that  she  was  not  mortally  oiFended,  after  which 
she  gently  disengaged  herself.  To  cover  the  constraint 
that  both  of  us  felt  I  went  on  to  wonder  if  our  shot  had 
taken  effect.  A  young  man  who  had  gone  to  find  out 
came  back  with  the  news  that  the  lookout,  having  spied 
the  pin  furrow  of  the  periscope,  the  shot  had  been  fired 
at  a  venture.  As  far  as  could  be  observed  it  had  done 
nothing  but  send  up  a  waterspout. 

On  receiving  this  information  I  went  on  with  our 
interrupted  personalities. 

"Ever  since  Sunday  I've  wondered  what  had  become 
of  you;  but  then  I've  been  looking  for  the  uniform." 

"I  always  intended  taking  that  off  when  I  got  on  board. 
You  see,  I  never  was  a  nurse  in  any  but  an  amateur  sense, 
and  so — " 

It  was  my  opportunity  to  spring  the  surprise  I  had  been 
holding  in  reserve  ever  since  my  talk  with  the  Consolatrice 
in  the  dock  at  Liverpool. 

"When  did  you  last  see  Mabel?" 

She  spoke  with  a  sharp,  sudden  mezzo  cry  that  might 
have  been  caused  by  pain. 

"Who  told  you  that?" 

"Who  told  me  what?" 

Bang! 

It  was  our  second  gun,  and  thou^  the  girl  in  the  yash- 
mak started  again,  she  did  not  seize  my  arm.  To  hold 
the  drama  at  its  instant  of  suspense,  I  pretended  to  be 
more  interested  in  the  effect  of  the  shot  than  in  anything 
else  in  the  world,  as  in  other  circumstances  I  should  have 
been.  I  turned  to  this  one  and  that  one,  inviting  their 
HS 


11 
Hi 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

guesset,  notins  all  the  while  that  over  Regma  Ban/f 
eyet  there  spread  the  surface  fire  that  a  flaming  sunset 
casts  on  troubled  water. 

She  harked  back  to  the  subject  as  socm  as  it  was  clear 
that  we  had  missed  our  aim  again. 

"Lady  Rideover  promised  me  she'd  never  tell  you." 

Her  tone  having  become  accusatory,  I  broke  in  on  it 
with  studied  nonchalance. 

"And  she  never  did.  To  the  best  of  my  recollection 
she  never  mentioned  your  name  to  me.  But  is  there  any- 
thing wrong  in  my  knowing  that  jou  and  she  are  friends?" 

G)lor  mounted  to  her  brows  where  the  yashmak 
couldn't  conceal  it,  though  she  ignored  the  question. 

"And  I'm  sure  it  wasn't  your  sister  Evelyn." 

"Why  shouldn't  it  have  been?" 

"Because  she  promised  me,  too.  I  should  be  frightfully 
hurt  if  I  thought  she—" 

"  i'hen  I'll  relieve  your  mind  by  assuring  you  that 
she  didn't.  But  to  me  the  curious  thing  is  that  you 
shouldn't  have  wanted  me  to  know." 

She  ignored  this,  too,  a  furrow  of  perplexity  deepening 
between  her  brows. 

"It  isn't  possible  that  Lady  Rideover  or  Evelyn,  with- 
out telling  you  in  words,  should  have  allowed  you  to  sus- 
pect — 

"Not  any  more  than  they  allowed  me  to  suspect  that 
I  was  being  nursed  by  a  houri  out  of  paradise." 

She  hastened  to  make  a  correction.  "Oh,  I  never  acted 
as  nurse  to  you!    It  was  that  Miss  Farfcy." 

"But  you  were  at  Taplow  when  I  was  there,  and  ii 
and  out  of  my  room." 

The  pecdiiar  Kght  in  her  eyes,  paitly  of  amazement, 
)>artly  of  incredulity,  reminded  me  of  a  poor  trapped 
346 


THE   CITY  OF  COMRADES 

lady  I  had  once  teen  in  the  priioner't  dock  while  a  witnett 
recounted  the  secreu  of  her  life  with  remarkable  exact- 
nets  of  detail. 

"But  you  couldn't  tee  met"  the  began,  helpleuly. 

"No,  but  I  could  hear." 

"And  you  didn't  hear  me.  If  I  went  into  your  room, 
which  I  didn't  often  do—" 

I  launched  a  theory  that  was  purely  inspiration. 

"Oh,  I  know.  If  you  came  into  my  room  you  didn't 
make  a  sound.  You  arranged  that  with  Mabel.  But 
haven't  you  heard  that  the  blind  develop  an  extra 
sense?" 

"Not  as  quickly  at  that— or  with  that  precision." 
She  brightened  with  a  new  thought.  "  If  your  extra  sense 
told  you  I  was  there,  why  didn't  you  speak  to  me?" 

"Suppose  I  said  that  I  respected  your  incognita?  If 
you  didn't  want  to  speak  to  me  it  must  have  been  for  a 
reason.    I  couldn't  ignore  that." 

Wiir-r-r!    Z-z-2!    P^FI 

A  shell  from  the  submarine  struck  the  water  somewhere 
near  us,  though  all  we  saw  was  a  column  of  white  spume 
on  the  port  side  of  the  ship,  while  we  were  on  the  star- 
board. 

She  ignored  even  this.  Standing  erect,  with  her  hands 
in  the  pockets  of  her  ulster,  with  no  feature  to  betray  her 
but  her  eyes,  she  surmised,  calmly,  "Some  of  the  other 
nurses  or  one  of  the  patients  must  have  given  you  a  hint." 

'None  of  them  ever  pronounced  your  name  in  my 
hearing." 

"Then  I  give  up  guessing!"  the  said,  with  a  touch  of 
impatience. 

"Which  is  what  I  can't  do." 
"But  what  have  you  to  guess  at?" 
247 


i'' 


i|-.jt.il 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

'At  what  you've  done  it — at  what  you're  doing  it — 
for." 

She  may  have  smiled  behind  the  yashmak  as  she  said, 
"What  difference  does  it  make  to  you?" 

"I  dare  say  it  doesn't  make  any— except  that  I  seem 
to  be  the  person  benefited." 

"In  time  of  war  the  soldier— the  man  who  does  the 
thing — ^is  the  person  benefited." 

"Oh  no;  there's  the  cause." 

"But  surely,  if  we've  learned  anything  during  the  past 
two  years,  it's  that  what  the  soldier  does  for  the  cause 
can't  compare  with  what  the  cause  does  for  the  sol- 
dier." 

I  saw  my  opportunity  and  was  quick  to  use  it.  "So 
that  out  of  what  you've  been  doing  for  me  even  you  have 
got  something." 

She  turned  this  neatly.  "I've  got  a  great  deal — out 
of  what  I've  been  doing  for  every  one.  Not  that  it's  been 
much.  I  merely  mean  that,  whatever  it's  been,  it's 
brought  me  in  far  more  than  I've  ever  given  out." 

The  swing  of  the  boat  was  so  abrupt  as  almost  to  make 
her  heel  over.  Up  and  down  the  deck  such  passengers 
as  were  clinging  to  nothing  were  flung  this  way  and  that, 
with  some  laughing  and  a  few  involuntary  cries.  Miss 
Barry  having  braced  me  in  a  comer  of  the  alcove  because 
of  my  game  leg,  I  kept  my  footing  steadily,  but  the  girl 
herself  was  thrown  square  into  my  arms. 

Not  more  than  a  second  later  another  Whir-r-r!  Z-z-z! 
warned  us  that  another  shell  was  on  the  way;  but  before 
we  had  time  to  be  afraid  a  soft  P-fFI  told  us  that  this, 
too,  had  struck  the  water.  The  waterspout,  this  time  on 
the  starboard  side,  not  only  spattered  us  with  spray,  but 
made  it  clear  that  only  the  sharp  shifting  of  the  course 
24.8 


J:; 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 


had  saved  us  from  a  hole  in  our  bow.  That  within  the 
next  few  minutes  our  enemy  would  get  us  somewhere  was 
a  little  more  than  probable. 

Then  from  every  cluster  of  heads  came  the  cry,  "Oh, 
lookl" 

There  she  was — a  blue-gray  streak,  only  a  little  darker 
than  the  blue-gray  waters.  The  change  in  our  course 
revealed  her  as  she  lay  on  the  surface  to  shell  us,  since  she 
was  too  far  away  to  send  us  a  torpedo.  We  forgot  every- 
thing— Regina  Barry  and  I  forgot  each  other — to  gaze. 
My  arms  relaxed  their  hold  on  the  girl  because  there  was 
no  longer  a  mind  to  direct  them;  the  girl  took  command 
of  herself  because  it  was  only  thus  that  she  could  observe 
the  most  baleful  and  fascinating  monster  in  the  world. 

For  it  was  as  a  monster,  baleful  and  fascinating,  that 
we  regarded  her.  She  was  not  a  thing  planned  by  men's 
brains  and  built  in  a  shipyard.  She  was  an  abnormal, 
unscrupulous,  venomous  water  beast,  with  a  special  en- 
mity toward  man.  She  had  about  her  the  horror  of  the 
trackless,  the  deep,  the  solitary,  the  lonesome,  the  devil- 
ish. Few  of  us  had  ever  got  a  glimpse  of  her  before.  It 
was  like  Saint  George's  first  sight  of  the  dragon  that 
wasted  men  and  cities,  and  called  forth  his  hatred  and 
his  sword. 

I  think  that  sheer  hatred  was  the  cause  of  our  banging 
away  at  her  with  our  two  guns.  We  could  hardly  expect 
to  hit  her.  She  must  have  been  out  of  our  range,  and  our 
only  hope  was  in  getting  out  of  hers. 

As  far  as  we  could  judge  she  was  lying  still  and  shelling 
us  at  her  ease.  Splash  I  Splash!  Splash  1  The  screech- 
ing things  went  all  round  us;  but  by  some  miracle  they 
were  only  spectacular. 

Viewed  as  a  spectacle,  there  was  a  terrific  beauty  in  it 
17  349 


3  . 


Ld 


,;  f' 


:i  \\ 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

all.  Nature  and  man  were  raging  together,  ferociouity, 
magnificently,  without  coMcience,  without  quarter,  with- 
out remorse.  Hell  had  uniealed  iti  tpringi  even  in  ui 
who  itood  watchful  and  inactive.  There  wa»  a  sense  of 
abhorrent  glory  Jn,  the  knowledge  that  there  were  no 
Umits  to  which  we  would  not  go.  That  there  were  no 
limits  to  which  our  enemy  would  not  go  with  us  was  stimu- 
lating, quickening,  like  the  flicker  of  the  whip  to  the 
racer.  AV  out  and  above  us  were  all  the  elements  of  which  ^ 
man  is  most  accustomed  to  be  afraid,  but  which,  now  that  -^ 
we  were  among  them,  inspired  an  appalling  glee. 

It  was  amazing  how  quickly  we  got  used  to  it,  just  as, 
I  am  told,  a  man  after  a  night  or  two  gets  used  to  being  in 
the  deathJiouse.  To  be  shelled  on  a  stormy,  lonely  ocean 
came  within  a  few  minutes  to  being  a  matter  of  course. 
Had  we  had  time  to  reflect  and  look  backward,  it  would 
have  seemed  strange  to  think  that  we  had  made  voyages 
across  the  Atlantic  in  which  we  had  not  been  shelled. 

Then  all  of  a  sudden  there  was  a  noise  like  that  in  a 
house  when  it  is  struck  by  lightning.  It  was  as  if  all 
creation  had  burst  into  sound,  as  if  there  were  nothing 
anywhere  that  was  not  a  concomitant  of  an  ear-splitting, 
soul-splitting  crash.  It  was  over  us;  it  was  round  us; 
it  was  everywhere;  it  might  have  been  within  us.  In 
our  own  persons  we  seemed  to  be  rent  by  it. 

From  the  port  side  a  blast  of  smoke  rose  an<1  poisoned 
the  dark  air.  A  few  shrieks,  half  suppressed  by  the 
shriekers,  ran  the  length  of  the  deck,  and  a  few  male 
exclamations  of  astonishment  and  awe.  For  the  most 
part,  however,  we  stood  PtiM  and  soundless,  as  I  believe 
we  should  have  held  ourselves  had  it  proved  to  be  the 
Judgment  Day.  i^    »  u 

Our  immediate  impression  was  that  aU  the  aft  of  the 
350 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 


•hip  had  been  carried  away.  Had  the  begtm  to  tettla 
■tem  foremott  on  the  initant  we  should  not  have  been 
■urprised.  We  could  hardly  believe  that  the  long,  nar> 
row  perspective  of  the  deck,  with  its  groups  dotting  the 
length  of  it,  could  remain  unshattered  and  afloat.  We 
were  sure  the  decks  below  must  have  been  blown  into 
air  and  water. 

For  the  hundredth  part  of  a  second  the  Assiniboia  ap- 
peared to  stop  still  in  her  course,  like  a  creature  with  its 
death-wound.  She  seemed  stricken,  stunned.  But  she 
gave  another  lurch,  another  swing  to  her  huge  person; 
and  when  the  second  shell  came  on,  taking  the  range  of 
that  which  had  struck  her,  it  plowed  the  waves  astern. 
All  seemed  to  be  over  in  the  space  of  between  two  breaths. 
By  the  time  we  could  get  our  wits  together  sufficiently  to 
ask  what  had  happened  she  was  once  more  driving 
onward. 

It  was  splendid.  It  was  sublime.  It  thnlled  one  with 
pride  in  pluck  and  seamanship.  One  could  have  hugged 
the  brave  old  leviathan  by  the  neck. 

A  British  seaman,  running  down  the  deck  on  some  er- 
rand, cried,  as  he  passed  us:  "Got  the  old  bucket  aft, 
just  above  the  water-line.  But,  Lor*  I  she  don't  mind  it  I 
Didn't  do  no  'arm.  On'y  killed  Sammy  Smelt,  a  steerage 
cabin-boy." 

But  it  was  a  beginning.  Nothing  could  save  us  now 
but  speed  and  the  captain's  skill.  The  young  officer  who 
had  helped  to  strip  the  covering  oflF  No.  5  strolled  by  us, 
smoking  a  cigarette. 

"We're  showing  her  a  pretty  clean  pair  of  heels,"  he 
said,   coolly,   by   way   of  dealing  out   encouragement. 
"Ship's  carpenter's  begun  plugging  up  the  hole.    That 
won't  hurt  us  so  long  as  we  don't  get  another." 
2SI 


i 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 


"What  about  the  cabin-boy?"  some  one  called  out. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  saying,  merely,  "Doctor 
attending  to  the  wounded." 

It  was  strange  to  be  tearing  through  the  seas,  with 
that  erratic  course  of  the  crazed  leviathan,  when  at  any 
second  death  might  strike  us  from  the  air.  I  had  often 
been  under  shell-fire,  of  course;  but  on  land  there  was 
generally  some  dugout,  some  abri,  in  which  one  could 
seek  shelter.  What  impressed  me  here  was  the  vast 
exposure  of  it  all.  We  could  only  stand  with  the  heaven 
over  us,  ready  to  take  to  the  boats,  if  need  be,  or  equally 
ready  to  be  blown  into  bits  like  little  Sammy  Smelt. 

Among  the  people  on  the  deck  the  quiet  waiting  which 
the  traditions  of  the  race  have  made  second  nature  con- 
tinued. We  might  have  been  passengers  gathered  at  the 
entrance  to  a  railway  track.  If  a  scared  look  haunted 
some  faces,  it  was  not  more  than  might  have  been  oc- 
casioned by  the  extreme  lateness  of  a  train. 

The  shells  were  still  splashing,  th$.ship  was  still  driving 
onward  under  every  pound  of  steam,  when  I  looked 
again  at  the  girl  in  the  yashmak.  It  must  not  be  under- 
stood that  I  had  looked  away  from  her  for  long.  The 
period  of  our  extreme  peril  did  not  in  reality  cover  more 
than  a  few  minutes.  Like  the  crisis  of  a  fever,  it  was  slow 
in  coming,  but  it  passed  quickly,  though  we  needed  some 
time  to  realize  the  fact. 

But  when  I  looked  again  at  Regina  Barry  I  found  her 
as  little  disturbed  as  a  woman  could  possibly  have  been 
in  that  special  situation.  Not  to  be  hurled  again  into 
my  arms,  she  held  now  to  the  hand-rail  tliat  nms  along 
cabin  walls;  but  she  watched  me  rather  than  the  ocean. 
I  was  her  charge  and  the  ocean  was  not.  The  blue-gray 
streak  that  had  held  her  attention  for  a  while  was  visible 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

«ily  whci  the  tumingt  of  the  thip  threw  it  into  view; 
otherwiie  we  had  nothing  to  lee  on  the  narboaid  lide 
except  an  infinitude  of  billow*  with  curling  white  creiu. 

To  resume  something  like  the  customary  attitude  of 
human  beings  toward  each  other  I  said,  as  casually  as  I 
could  manage,  "You  came  over  here  just  after  I  did, 
didn't  youf" 

Having  purposely  framed  my  sentence  in  just  those 
words,  it  was  some  satisfaction  to  get  the  result  I  was 
playing  for.  It  took  all  the  aplom'  — a  rather  shy  aplomb 
— of  which  she  was  mistress  to  answer  in  a  way  that 
wouldn't  underscore  my  meaning. 

"Possibly;  but  I  don't  remember  when  you  came 
over." 

Having  given  the  date  of  my  sailing,  I  added,  "And 
you  left  with  Evelyn  a  little  more  than  three  weeks 
later?" 

"Since  you   know  everything,   you   naturally   know 
that."    She  took  on  the  old  air  of  being  at  once  smiling 
and  defiant  as  she  asked,  "And  has  the  fact  any  special 
.  significance?" 

"That's  what  I  want  to  find  out."  Before  she  could 
protest  that  there  was  no  such  significance  I  put  the 
question,  "How  did  you  come  to  know  her?" 

"Is  she  so  tenibly  difficult  to  know?" 

"Not  in  the  least;  only,  you'd  never  seen  her  in  your 
life  at  the  time  when"— I  gathered  all  my  innermost 
strength  together  to  bring  the  words  out — "at  the  time 
when  I  talked  to  you  last." 

_  She,  too,  gathered  her  innermost  strength  together, 
(isiig  to  the  reference  gallantly. 

"Oh,  well,  a  good  many  things  have  happened  since 
then." 

253 


THE   CITY  OF  COMRADES 

Before  (mng  further  I  wat  obliged  to  pauae  and  reckoB 
how  much  I  dared.  Of  the  many  teniitive  points  in  my 
history,  we  were  touching  on  the  moit  leniitive.  I  was 
fully  aware  that  since  the  sleeping  dog  was  sleeping  it 
might  be  better  to  let  him  lie.  Once  he  was  roused,  there 
might  be  a  new  set  of  perils  to  deal  with,  perils  we  could 
avoid  by  softly  stepping  round  them.  That  Paolo 
should  go  one  way  in  space  and  Francesca  another  seemed 
to  be  decreed  by  inevitable  fate;  so  why  interfere  with 
the  process? 

I  should  probably  not  have  interfered  with  it  had  the 
circumstances  not  raised  us  above  the  sphere  of  our  or> 
dinary  interests.  The  roar  of  the  wind,  the  tumult  of 
the  sea,  the  plunging  of  the  ship,  the  indescribable  whin- 
ing of  shells,  the  knowledge  of  danger — were  as  the  or- 
chestra which  lifts  the  duet  to  emotional  planes  that 
dialogue  alone  could  never  attain  to.  Though  our  words 
might  be  commonplace,  every  syllable  was  charged  with 
tones  and  overtones  and  undertones  of  meaning  to  be 
seiaed  by  something  more  subtle  than  intelligence.  Pru- 
dence might  have  said,  "Let  everything  alone,"  but  that 
urging  of  the  being  which  escapes  the  leash  of  prudence 
drove  me  on  to  speak. 

"Do  you  remember  when  I  talked  to  you  last?" 

She  answered  with  the  detachment  of  a  witness  under 
compulsion  to  tell  the  truth.  The  personal  was  as  far 
as  possible  eliminated  from  her  voice. 

"Perfectly." 

"We — ^we  seemed  to— to  break  off  in  the  middle  of 
a  conversation." 

"Which  you  never  gave  me  any  further  opportunity 
of  going  on  with." 

The  statement  took  my  breath  away.  For  some  secondi 
3S4 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

I  could  only  itare  at  her  m  ■  truthful  man  ftat«t  when  h» 
heari  himicif  given  the  lie  diren. 

"Did  you— did  you— want  to  goon  wi  it  ri  man- 
aged to  itammer  at  Ian. 

"What  do  you  think  f 

"I— I  didn't  think  that.    I  waited  nearly  rw  >  '  oun." 

"And  if  you'd  only  waited  a  few  minutei  i.  u; 

I  leaned  down  toward  her,  breaking  in  i  .    U>-r  ....  h 
with  a  seme  of  what  I  might  have  lost:      '  veothir. 
would  have  been  different?    You  were  gonj;  to  s  ^  th « '' 

She  took  time  to  raise  her  hands  and  a  l|ist  i.u  .  nsh- 
mak,  giving  me  the  clue  to  her  reason  for  v  in  ,t 
It  was  putting  on  a  vizor  before  going  into  battle.  Knov 
ing  that  she  would  be  thrown  into  some  difficult  s.'i  l'  ■ ;.  as, 
she  had  taken  this  method  of  being  as  far  as  possible 
screened  against  embarrassment. 

She  was  successful  in  that.  Apart  from  the  shifting 
surface  fire  of  her  eyes  and  the  slightest  possible  tremor 
m  her  voice  I  saw  no  rift  in  the  barricade  of  her  com- 
posure. 

"No;  that  isn't  what  I  was  going  to  say.  I  don't 
know  how  things  would  have  been.  I  suppose  they 
would  have  been  as — as  they  are  now." 

"But  we  could  have  talked  them  over." 

"If  you'd  waited." 

"I  should  have  waited  forever  if  I'd  known." 
"Or  if,"  she  went  on,  with  the  same  serenity,  "you 
hadn't  disappeared  next  day  without  leaving  an  address. 
I  tried  to  find  you— as  Well  as  I  could,  that  is— without 
seeming  to  hunt  you  down." 

I  exnlained  that  when  I  left  New  York  on  that  last 
Monday  in  June,  1914, 1  had  not  expected  to  be  gone  for 
more  than  a  few  <*eel»-just  the  time  to  recover  from 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 


die  first  effects  of  the  blow  i  thought  her  scorn  had  dealt 
to  me. 

"It  was  curious,  though,"  I  went  on,  "that  that  name, 
Gavrilo  Prinzip,  should  have  hammered  itself  in  on  my 
brain.  I  recall  it  now  as  about  the  only  thing  I  could 
think  of.  I  didn't  know  what  it  meant,  and  I  was  far 
from  supposing  it  the  touchstone  of  human  destinies  that 
it  afterward  proved  to  be;  but  in  some  unreasoning  way 
it  held  me.  It  was  like  the  meaningless  catch  of  a  tune 
with  v/hich  you  can't  go  on,  till  all  at  once  you  see  it 
finishes  in — " 

"In  a  trumpet-call.  Yes,  I  know.  You  had  to  follow 
it.  So  had  I.  I  don't  think  there's  much  more  than 
that  to  be  said." 

The  blue-gray  streak  was  again  on  the  starboard 
side,  but  comfortingly  far  astern.  Though  we  were  still 
within  her  range,  we  were  getting  the  benefit  of  distance. 
At  the  same  time  some  one  called  our  attenion  to  a 
blotch  of  black  smoke,  far  down  on  the  eastern  Iiorizon. 
A  destroyer  was  coming  to  our  aid. 

I  went  back  to  the  point  we  had  partially  forsaken. 

"How  long  did  you  expect  me  to  wait  that  afternoon?" 

She  looked  down  at  the  deck,  answering  with  a  per- 
ceptible infusion  of  the  bitter  in  her  tone. 

"I  didn't  fix  a  time.  I  wasn't  sitting  with  my  watch 
in  my  hand." 

"But  I  was." 

"Evidently." 

"Why  didn't  you  come  down?" 

"I  came  down  as  soon  as  I  could." 

"What  kept  you?" 

She  raised  her  eyes  tor  a  fleeting  glance — lowering 
them  again.  At  the  same  time  her  voice  sank,  too, 
356 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

•o  that  in  the  fury  of  sound  about  us  she  was  no  motr 

than  audible. 
"The  thing  you  told  me." 
"And  that  kept  you — in  what  way?" 
"In  the  way  of  making  everything— different." 
"How  much  does  that  mean— different?" 
"It  means  a  „Dod  deal." 
"Can't  you  tell  me  exactly?" 

•"»*^""**  **"  ^°^  exactly;  but  it  was  something  like 
this."  She  fixed  her  eyes  on  me  steadily.  "When  they 
first  opened  the  Subway  in  New  York  I  came  up  out  of 
a  station  one  winter  afternoon  just  as  the  lights  were- 
lit,  and  instead  of  going  to  the  right,  as  I  should  have 
done,  I  turned  to  the  left.  When  I  had  walked  about 
fifteen  minutes  I  was  dazed.  Though  I  was  in  a  part  of 
New  York  I  knew  perfectly  well,  I  couldn't  recognize 
anything.  It  was  all  a  confusion  of  lights.  I  couldn't 
tell  which  of  the  streets  ran  north  and  south,  or  which 
were  east  and  west,  or  what  the  buildings  were  that  I'd 
been  used  to  seeing  all  my  life.  In  the  end  some  one  took 
me  into  a  drug.«tore  and  made  me  sit  down  till  I  had  time 
to  reorientate  myself." 

"But  you  did  it  in  the  end?" 

"That  time — yes." 

"And  this  time?    The  time  we're  talking  about?" 

Whir-r-rl    Z-z-z!    P-ffI 

Bang  I 

Whir-r-rl    Z-z-z  I    P-ffI 

Bang  I 

From  the  port  side  there  came  something  like  a  feeble 
cheer— a  chorus  of  rough  male  voices  and  high  female 
screams,  timid  and  yet  glad. 

A  new  swing  of  our  crazed  leviathan  disclosed  the  natoa, 
aS7 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 


R 


for  this  wavering,  victorious  cry.  There  were  two  more 
blobs  of  smoke  on  the  horizon,  and  from  different  points 
on  the  Irish  coast  three  huge  birds  were  flying  like  mes- 
sengers from  some  god.  Moreover,  the  blob  of  smoke 
.  we  had  first  seen  now  had  a  considerable  stretch  of  the 
ocean  behind  her,  and  in  front  a  parting  of  the  spray 
like  two  white  plumes  as  she  tore  in  our  direction. 

"She  sure  is  some  little  ripper!"  came  a  dry  Yankee 
voice  in  the  group  about  life-boat  No.  j. 
"Thirty-five  knots  if  it's  one." 

"Them  'planes  'II  overtake  her,  though,  and  be  on  the 
•pot  as  soon  as  she  is." 

"Gosh I    I'd  like  to  see  Fritzie  then!" 
"J'ever  see  a  kingfisher  sweep  down  on  a  gudgeon?" 
"Gee-whiz!    I-ook  at  Fritzie!    Goin'  to  submerge!" 
And  sure  enough,  as  we  stared,  the  blue-gray  streak 
began  to  sink  behind  the  waves,  becoming  to  the  imag- 
ination even  more  a  giant  deep-sea  repule  after  it  had 
gone. 

Almost  simultaneously  our  leviathan  calmed  down, 
resuming  her  straight  course.  It  was  done  apparently 
with  the  wordless,  unexplained  inconsequence  with  which 
a  runaway  horse  will  suddenly  fall  into  a  peaceful  trot. 
There  was  no  stopping  to  salute  the  destroyers  and  'planes 
that  were  hastening  to  our  help  or  to  exchange  confi- 
dences with  them  as  to  our  common  enemy.  There  was 
neither  hail  nor  farewell  as  we  forged  again  toward  the 
open  sea. 

Danger  being  considered  past,  the  groups  broke  up, 
intermingling  with  sighs  of  relief.  The  Consolatrice  and 
her  friend  came  to  exchange  a  few  words  with  us,  and 
Miss  Prynne  returned  from  the  boat  to  which  she  had 
good-naturedly  exchanged.  While  I  thanked  her  for 
258 


THE   CITY   OF   COMRADES 

this  kindness,  as  if  It  had  been  done  for  myself,  I  saw 
Miss  Barry  trying  to  slip  off. 

By  stepping  out  of  my  comer  and  assuming  a  limp 
lamer  than  my  actual  disability  warranted  I  was  able  to 
intercept  her. 

"I  wonder,"  I  made  bold  to  ask,  "if  you  could  give 
me  a  hand  back  to  the  music-room  i" 

The  yashmak  was  not  so  impervious  but  that  I  could 
detect  behind  it  the  scarlet  glimmer  of  her  smile. 

"Oh,  I  think  you  could  get  there  by  yourself.    Try." 

"I  can  manage  the  deck,"  I  said,  in  the  tones  of  a  boy 
feigning  an  indir;  '/tion  to  stay  away  from  school,  "but 
I'm  afraid  of  iht  steps  of  the  companionway." 

"How  would  you  have  managed  if  I  hadn't  been  here?" 
she  asked,  as  she  allowed  me  to  lean  ever  so  lightlv  on  her 
arm. 

The  steps  of  the  companionway  presenting  a  more  real 
di£Bculty  than  I  had  expected,  I  could  say  nothing  till 
with  her  aid  I  had  lowered  myself  safely  down. 

Postponing  the  pleasure  of  thanking  her,  I  reverted  t» 
the  topic  the  last  attack  had  interrupted. 

"I  want  to  hear  about  your  reorientation.  You  were 
able  to  put  the  streets  in  their  proper  place  again,  and  to 
seejNew  York  as  it  was;  but  in  my  case — " 

She  put  out  her  hand  with  that  air  which  there  is  no 
gainsaying. 

"I'm  rather  tired.  I  think  I  must  go  to  my  cabin  and 
have  a  rest."  She  added,  however,  not  very  coherently: 
"The  way  things  happen  is  in  general  the  best  way — if 
we  know  how  to  use  it." 

Somewhat  desperately,  because  of  her  determination 
to  go,  I  burst  out,  "And  do  you  think  all  this  has  been 
the  best  way?" 

as9 


!« 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

"You  must  see  for  yourself  that  it's  been  a  very  good 
way.    We've  been  able  to  do— to  do  the  things  we've 
both  done."    But  the  admission  in  the  use  of  the  first 
personal  plural  pronoun  seemed  suddenly  to  alarm  her. 
She  took  refuge  again  in  her  need  of  rest.    "I  really 
must  be  oflF.    If  we  don't  meet  again  before  we  leave  the 
boat—" 
"Oh,  but  we  shall!" 
"I'm  very  often  confined  to  my  cabin." 
"Not  when  you  want  to  be  out  of  it." 
"Very  well,  then;  I  very  often  don't  leave  my  cabin." 
I  was  holding  the  hand  she  had  extended  to  say  good- 
by,  but  she  slipped  it  away  and  was  -oing. 

"Then  tell  me  this— just  this,"  I  begged.  "How  is  it 
diat  we're  both  on  the  same  ship?  That  didn't  happen 
by  accident?" 

Whether  she  refused  to  answer  my  question  or  whether 
It  didn't  reach  her  I  couldn't  tell.  All  I  got  in  response 
was  a  long,  oblique  regard— the  fleeing  farewell  look  of 
Beatrice  Cenci— as  she  carried  her  secrets  and  mysteries 
away  with  her. 


CHAPTER  XXI 


00  my  celibacy  of  the  will  was  threatened.  I  mean 
<J  by  that  that  I  found  myself  with  two  main  objects 
of  thought  instead  of  one.  Having  vowed  myself  to  a 
cause,  a  woman  had  supervened  with  that  pervasiveness 
of  presence  with  which  a  perfume  fills  a  room.  I  might 
still  vow  myself  to  the  cause,  but  I  shouldn't  serve  it  aa 

1  had  meant  to,  with  heart  and  senses  free. 
Or  should  I? 

The  question  fundamentally  was  that.  Could  I  at  a 
time  like  this  divide  my  allegiance  as  I  should  be  obliged 
to  divide  it  by  falling  in  love  and  being  married?  Or 
ought  I,  in  deference  to  the  work  I  was  to  do,  suppres» 
this  old  passion  and  smother  the  problems  and  curiosities 
it  had  begun  to  rouse  in  me? 

If,  in  view  of  the  many  men  who  have  been  good  sol- 
diers and  equally  good  husbands,  this  hesitation  seems 
far-fetched  to  you,  I  must  beg  you  to  remember  what  I 
have  told  you  already,  that  my  mission,  such  as  it  was,, 
had  become  my  life.  For  this  the  inspiration  sprang 
from  what  I  had  seen  for  myself.  What  I  had  seen  for 
myself  compelled  me  to  believe  that  the  world  was  di- 
vided into  just  two  camps— those  who  fought  the  Ger- 
mans and  those  who  did  not.  "He  that  is  not  with  me 
IS  against  me,"  I  was  prepared  to  say;  except  that  for  the 
small  bordering  nations,  whom  the  arch-enemy  could  have 
crushed  as  he  had  crushed  Belgium  and  Serbia  before  any 
one  else  could  save  them,  I  was  ready  to  make  long  allow- 
261 


I 
ite,gtn 


I  I 


n 


THE   CITY   OF   COMRADES 

I  couldn't  make  these  allowances  for  the  United 
States;  and  to  win  the  friends  I  valued  so  highly  to 
joining  in  the  task  that  seemed  to  me  the  most  pressing 
before  mankind  was  the  work  to  which  I  longed  to  give 
myself  every  minute  of  the  day. 

No  consecrated  soldier  of  a  holy  war  had  ever  been 
moved  by  a  purer  singleness  of  purpose  than  I  when  I 
came  on  board  the  Assiniboiu;  and  now  I  was  already 
thinking  most  of  something  else.  As  violently— I  choose 
the  adverb— as  if  I  had  never  seen  this  woman's  image 
grow  fainter  and  fainter  in  my  memory  I  craved  to  know 
certain  things  about  her. 

I  might  state  those  things  in  this  way:  Why,  in  the 
summer  in  which  I  joined  the  army  and  went  across  with 
tiie  first  Canadian  contingent,  did  she  seek  the  acquaint- 
ance of  my  sister  Evelyn  and  undertake  nursing  in  her 
company?  Why  did  she  join  my  sister  Mabel  and  steal 
in  and  out  of  my  room  when  I  was  blind?  Why,  since 
1  was  blind,  did  she  keep  her  presence  unknown  to  me 
and  swear  my  sisters  to  secrecy?  Why  was  she  coming 
back  on  board  this  boat?  Did  she  really  care  for  me? 
And  if  she  really  cared  for  me,  why  this  air  of  ever  so 
courteous,  ever  so  gentle  constraint  the  minute  we  were 
alone  and  I  broached  any  subject  that  was  personal? 

Wassheangry?  Was  she  contrite  ?  Was  she  wounded? 
Was  she  scornful?  Was  she  proud?  Or  was  she  simply 
subjecting  me  to  one  more  test,  which  might  end  again 
in  her  being  disappointed? 

I  have  to  confess  that  these  inquiries  already  absorbed 
my  soul  in  such  a  way  that  I  forgot  that  on  which  I  had 
been  accustomed  to  meditate  every  hour  of  my  time—the 
approach  I  was  to  make  to  American  citizens  like  Beady 
Lament  and  Ralph  Coningsby.  Against  this  weaning 
262 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

away  of  my  heart  lome  essential  loyalty  cried,  "Treason  P' 
I  was  the  man  who  had  put  his  hand  to  the  plow  and  was 
looking  back.  If  I  continued  to  look  back  I  might  easily 
prove  unfit  for  the  kingdom  of  heaven  as  I  conceived 
of  it. 

Throughout  the  next  day  I  was  eager  to  test  the  effect 
of  these  counter-inclinations  on  myself.  That  I  could 
only  do  by  meeting  her.  If  I  met  her,  would  she  be  to 
me  simply  what  the  Consolatrice  was  to  a  mote  intimMe 
degree  ?  Or  should  I  find  her  the  brave,  aspiring,  provoca- 
tive spirit  that  had  led  me  up  the  path  that  had  begun 
to  mount  from  the  moment  when  I  first  saw  hei-— only  in 
the  end  to  let  me  fall  over  the  edge  of  a  precipice?  I 
wanted  to  see;  I  wanted  to  be  sure. 

But  she  kept  me  waiting.  She  didn't  appear  that  day. 
It  was  a  fine  day  for  the  ocean  in  November,  with  a 
tolerably  smooth  sea.  It  was  not  weather,  therefore, 
that  confined  her  to  her  cabin;  it  was  something  else. 
She  knew  I  would  be  on  the  watch  for  her,  and  she  let 
me  have  my  labor  for  my  pains. 

It  was  the  kind  of  advance  and  recession  with  which  I 
had  least  patience.  On  Thursday  morning  I  kept  no 
watch  for  her.  Swearing  that  she  meant  no  more  to  me 
than  Miss  Prynne  and  that  my  work  in  life  was  too  serious 
to  allow  any  woman  to  interfere  with  it,  I  gave  myself  to 
the  reading  of  books  on  the  war  situation  as  it  aflFected 
America.  If  she  was  playing  a  game,  she  would  learn 
that  it  was  not  one  of  solitaire.  Two  could  take  a  hand 
at  it,  and  with  equal  skill.  I  prided  myself  on  that  skill 
when  sometime  in  the  latter  part  of  Thursday  afternoon 
she  passed  my  chair  in  the  music-room— the  sixth  sense 
told  me  it  was  she— and  I  did  not  look  up  from  Sheeting's 
Oxford  lectures  on  "The  War  and  World  Repentance." 
363 


11  !,^ 


m 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

Though  my  cyi  followed  the  patsage,  I  got  little  or  no 
lense  from  it. 

"Human  effort  after  human  welfare  is  never  drastic 
enough,"  I  read.  "It  is  never  sufficiently  radical  to  ac- 
complish the  purpose  it  tri  i  to  carry  out.  Instead  of 
laying  its  ax  at  the  root  of  the  tree  of  its  ills  it  is  content 
lo  hack  off  a  few  branches.  '  "ever  gets  beyond  prun- 
i:iq;-work;  and  the  most  <  n  '.an  say  of  the  results  it 
nchieves  is  that  they  are    -  tter  than  nothing. 

"So  much,  then,  one  can  affirm  of  the  dreams  that  are 
now  being  dreamed,  in  all  probability  to  vanish  with 
waking.  They  are  better  than  nothing.  Better  than 
nothing  are  the  aims  held  up  before  the  Allied  nations  as 
the  citadels  they  are  to  capture.  The  crushing  of  mili- 
tary despotism  is  better  than  nothing;  the  elimination 
of  war  is  better  than  nothing;  the  establishment  of  uni- 
versal democracy,  the  founding  of  a  league  of  nations,  the 
formation  of  a  league  to  enforce  peace,  the  dissemination 
of  a  world-wide  entente,  these  are  all  of  them  better  than 
rothinj;,  even  though  they  end  in  being  no  more  produc- 
tive of  permanent  blessing  than  the  Hague  Conference, 
vhich  was  better  than  nothing  in  itself.  They  are  prob- 
rbly  as  effective  as  anything  that  man,  with  his  reason, 
l;is  wisdom,  his  science,  his  degree  of  self-rontrol,  and  his 
p  thetic  persistence  in  believing  in  himself  when  that 
1  lief  has  so  unfailingly  been  blasted,  can  ever  attain 

.     But,  oh,  gentlemen,  as  the  prophet  said  thirty  cen- 

ries  age,  'This  is  not  the  way,  neither  is  this  the  city.' 

u  are  pouring  out  blood;  you  are  pouring  out  money; 

u  are  giving  your  sons  and  your  daughters  to  pass 

'  roiiph  the  fire  to  Moloch;   through  the  fire  to  Moloch 

r.nflinchingly  they  pass;   you  are  tearing  the  hearts  out 

of  your  own  bodies,  and  you  are  doing  it  with  a  heroism 

264 


THE   CITY   OF   COMRADES 

that  cannot  fail  of  lome  reward.  But  this  is  not  the  way, 
neither  is  this  the  city.  It  is  better  than  nothing,  but  it 
is  not  the  best.  You  could  do  it  all  so  much  more  thor. 
oughly,  so  much  more  easily.  You  will  accomplish  some- 
thing; there  is  no  question  about  that;  but  till  you  take 
the  right  way,  and  attack  the  city  of  which  you  must 
become  masters,  that  great  good  thing  for  which  you  are 
fighting  will  still  be  a  vision  of  the  future." 

But  with  the  knowU.',,e  that  this  woman  had  simply- 
passed  and  let  her  shadow  fall  upon  me  I  had  no  heart 
for  Sheering's  impassioned  words.  I  got  up  and  followed 
her. 

I  found  her  on  deck,  far  forward,  leaning  on  the  rail 
and  watching  a  fiery,  angry  sunset  that  inflamed  all  tho 
western  horizon.  As  she  looked  round  and  saw  me  ad^ 
vancing  along  the  deck  I  detected  in  her  telltale  eyes  the 
first  scared  impulse  to  run  away. 
But  what  was  she  afraid  of? 

It  was  the  question  I  asked  as  soon  as  I  was  near 
enough  to  speak. 

"What  makes  you  think  I'm  afraid  of  anything?" 
"The  way  you  looked.    You  see,  this  queer  sort  of  veil 
doesn't  protect  you;   it  gives  you  away  by  throwing  all 
your  expression  into  your  eyes.    There's  an  essence  that 
eludes  one  till  it's  concentrated  and  distilled." 
"  I'm  sure  I  didn't  mean — " 

"To  look  like  an  animal  trying  to  escape?  Well,  you 
did." 

"Oh,  as  to  that,  I  could  easily  have  walked  round  the 
deck-house  to  the  other  side  of  the  ship." 

"If  the  discourtesy  wouldn't  have  been  too  obvious— 
of  course!"  But  I  didn't  press  the  point.  There  were 
other  admitsions  to  which  I  had  an  unchivalrous  cravins 
»  36s 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

to  bring  her  if  I  could;  and  m  I  want  on,  anfully,  "It  was 
dever  of  you  to  find  my  ttate-room  on  Tuesday — all  on 
the  ipur  of  the  moment  like  that." 

She  contented  herielf  with  murmuring,  "Yei,  wasn't 
itr 

"And  your  own  cabin  ii  on  another  deck." 

"I'm  on  this  deck." 

"So  that  you  hadn't  even  seen  me  going  in  and  out." 

"I'm  a  nurse — in  a  way.  Nurses  have  to  know  more 
than  other  passengers  or  they'd  be  no  good  on  board  ship." 

"And  do  you  know  every  one's  cabin?" 

"I  know  every  one's  cabin  to  whom  I  can  be  useful." 

"Is  that  many?" 

"No;  not  many,  unfortunately."  She  diverted  the 
attack  by  saying,  "What  are  you  asking  for?" 

"Oh,  for  nothing,"  I  answered,  carelessly.  I  added, 
however,  with  some  slight  show  of  intention,  "I've  called 
it  your  cleverness,  but  I  really  mean  it  as  your  kindness." 

She  decided  to  take  the  bull  by  the  horns,  shifting  her 
position  and  standing  with  her  back  to  the  rail. 

"If  you  call  it  kindness  that  I  should  have  learned  the 
number  and  location  of  your  cabin  before  we  left  Liver- 
pool—" 

"Oh,  you  did  it  then?" 

"Yes,  I  did  it  then.  But  if  you  call  it  kindness,  of 
course  I  can't  prevent  you.  I  can  only  assure  you  it 
isn't.     I  knew  you  couldn't  get  about  easily — " 

"How  did  you  know  that?" 

"I  saw  you  come  on  board.    Wasn't  that  enough?" 

"Then  let  me  go  farther  back  and  ask  how  you  hap- 
pened to  see  me  come  on  board.    Wasn't  it  an  extraor- 
dinary coincidence  that  you  should  have  been  there, 
right  at  the  head  of  the  gangway?" 
266 


THE   CITY   OF   COMRADES 

"Well,  life  ii  full  of  extraordinary  coincidencef,  itn't 
h{  And  when  a  woman  who  can  do  to  little  aee*  a 
wounded  man — " 

There  were  other  wounded  men  scattered  about  the 
deck.  I  glanced  at  them  a*  I  said,  "And  have  you  done 
that  for  alt  the  wounded  men  on  board  f" 

"I've  done  it  for  all  I  know." 

"And  how  many  do  you  know?" 

She  averted  her  profile,  with  an  air  of  having  had 
enough  of  the  subject. 

"I  wanted  you  to  tell  me  a  minute  ago  why  you  were 
asking  me  these  questions,  and  you  said  for  nothing."  I 
could  see  her  smile  behind  the  chiffon  of  the  yashmak  a* 
she  went  on,  "Since  that's  your  only  reason,  perhaps  you 
won't  mind  if  I  don't  answer  you." 

"But  if  I  had  a  reason  for  asking,  would  you  tell  me 
then?" 

"Wouldn't  it  have  to  depend  on  the  reason?" 

"You're  very  careful." 

She  shot  a  daring,  smiling  glance  at  me  as  she  riposted, 
"Well,  aren't  you?"  Before  I  had  time  to  recover  from 
the  slight  shock  that  these  words  dealt  me  she  pointed 
to  the  horizon.  "See,  there's  smoke  over  there.  I  do 
hope  it's  not  another  U-boat." 

I  accepted  the  diversion — for  more  reasons  than  one. 
Of  these  the  first  was  the  shock  to  which  I  have  alluded. 
She  saw  through  me.  That  is,  she  saw  I  didn't  place  her 
first.  How  she  saw  it  I  could  no  more  tell  than  she 
could  tell  how  I  knew  her  history  of  the  past  two  years. 
But  the  tables  were  turned  and  turned  in  such  a  way  as 
to  make  me  feel  ridiculous.  A  man  who  is  careful  with 
regard  to  a  woman  is  alwavs  slightly  grotesque. 

As  my  most  skilful  defense  lay  in  feigning  a  lack  of  per- 


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THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

ception  I  talked  about  U-boats  and  the  experience  of  two 
days  before;  but  I  came  away  from  her  with  a  feeling  of 
discomfort. 

I  analjrzed  the  feeling  of  discomfort  as  due  to  the  repe- 
tition of  our  mutual  attitude  more  than  two  years  pre- 
viously. Where  she  came  forward  I  drew  back.  I  had 
always  drawn  back.  I  used  to  suppose  that  nothing  but 
one  motive  could  have  driven  me  to  this  humiliating 
course,  and  now  I  was  taking  it  from  another.  I  was 
taking  it  from  another,  and  she  knew  it.  The  essence 
of  the  humiliation  lay  in  that. 

Each  time  I  met  her  on  deck  she  betrayed  a  hesitation 
that  I  found  harder  to  bear  than  contempt.  Her  very 
effort  to  preserve  a  tone  of  friendliness  was  a  reproach 
to  me.  It  seemed  to  say:  "You  see  all  I've  done  for 
you.    You  accept  it  and  give  me  nothing  in  return." 

And  yet  I  was  obliged  to  consider  that  which,  were  I 
to  let  myself  be  nothing  but  myself,  might  lie  before  me 
in  the  next  few  weeks  and  months.  I  should  arrive  in 
New  York  as  a  man  engaged  to  be  married.  As  a  man 
engaged  to  be  married  I  should  be  at  once  enveloped  in 
that  silken  net  of  formalities  with  which  women  with 
their  consecration  to  the  future  of  the  race  have  invested 
all  that  pertains  to  the  preliminaries  of  mating.  I  had 
seen  for  myself  that  in  America  that  silken  net  is  more 
elaborate  than  it  is  elsewhere.  In  any  British  community 
it  is  spun  of  tissue,  fragile,  light,  easily  swept  aside  should 
the  need  arise.  In  America  it  is  solidly  constructed  of  gold 
cord,  and  is  as  often  as  not  adorned  with  gems.  In  America 
an  engagement  leads  to  something  of  an  anti-climax  in 
that,  from  the  human  point  of  view,  it  is  more  important 
than  a  marriage.  It  is  sung  by  a  chorus  of  matrons  and 
maidens  and  social  correspondents  of  the  press  in  a 
268 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

volume  for  more  resounding  than  that  of  the  nuptial 
hymn.  That  a  man  should  marry  after  he  has  become 
engaged  IS  considered  as  much  a  matter  of  course  as  that 
he  should  fight  after  he  has  enlisted;  but  that  he  should 
become  engaged  is  like  taking  that  first  oath  which  de- 
notes his  willingness  to  give  himself  up,  to  make  the 
great  renunciation  for  the  sake  of  something  else.  More 
than  any  single  or  signal  act  of  bravery  that  comes  larer. 
It  IS  the  thing  that  counts.  I  am  not  quarreling  with 
Amencan  social  custom;  I  am  only  saying  that  I  had 
reasons  for  being  afraid  of  it. 

I  should  arrive  in  New  York  as  a  man  engaged  to  be 
married,  and  as  a  man  engaged  to  be  married  I  should  be 
put  through  paces  as  strict  and  as  stately  as  those  of  the 
mmuet.  There  would  be  no  escape  from  it.  I  might  b« 
promised  in  advance  an  escape  from  it,  but  the  promise 
would  not  be  kept.  I  might  be  promised  simplicity, 
privacy,  secrecy,  a  mere  process  of  handfasting  before  the 
least  noticeable  of  legal  authorities;  but  all  would  go  bv 
the  board.  **      ' 

Whatever  my  future  wife  and  I  might  say— ard  mr 
future  mfe  would  say  it  only  half-heartedly,  if  as  earnest- 
ly as  that— I  should  be  seized  in  the  soft,  tender,  irresist- 
ible embrace  of  the  feminine  in  American  life,  the  ele- 
ment that  IS  far  more  powerful  than  any  other,  and  I 
should  have  no  more  fight  to  put  up  than  a  new-bom  in- 
fant against  a  nurse.  There  would  be  a  whole  array  of 
mothers  and  potential  mothers  to  see  that  I  had  not 
There  would  be  Mrs.  Barry  and  Annette  van  Elstine  and 
Hilda  Grace  and  Esther  Coningsby  and  Elsie  Coningsby 
and  Mrs  Legrand,  not  to  speak  of  a  vast  social  army 
behind  them,  all  supported  and  urged  on  by  the  unani- 
mous power  of  the  press. 

269 


^n 


11  '  I 


THE   CITY   OF   COMRADES 


;l      i 


I'   ' 


No  one  of  them  would  allow  me  to  tlip  from  their 
kindly,  overwhelming  attentions  any  more  than  bees 
would  allow  a  queen.  Like  a  queen  bee  is  any  man  who 
is  engaged  to  an  American  g^rl — or  at  least  he  was  in  the 
days,  now  so  extraordinarily  long  ago,  before  America 
went  into  the  war.  Since  then  marriage  has  become 
casual,  incidental,  one  of  those  hasty  touches  given  to 
human  life,  which,  like  the  possession  of  money  or  the 
pursuit  of  happiness  or  the  leisure  to  earn  a  living,  are 
pleasant  but  not  vital.  But  in  the  America  of  the  end 
of  1915,  the  mentally  far-away  America  to  which  I  was 
going  back,  matrimony  was  the  :  isr  momentous  happen- 
ing in  a  life  history.  From  the  1  ^mte  a  man  became  en- 
gaged to  that  when  he  turned  away  from  the  altar,  he 
had  to  give  himself  up  to  his  condition.  He  was  no 
longer  his  own.  Dinners,  lunches,  parties,  theaters,  pub- 
licity, and  the  approval  of  women  claimed  him;  and 
shrinking  was  of  no  avail. 

To  the  life  after  marriage,  from  this  point  of  view,  my 
mind  hardly  worked  forward.  I  have  spoken  of  men 
who  were  good  soldiers  and  equally  good  husbands.  Un- 
doubtedly there  are  hundreds  of  thousands  in  the  class. 
But  I  had  seen  not  a  little  of  men  who,  because  they  were 
husbands,  would  gladly  not  have  been  soldiers  at  all. 
Theirs  was  not  a  divided  allegiance,  for  they  had  only  one. 
The  body  was  in  the  fight,  and  it  did  wondrously;  but 
the  heart  and  soul  and  mind  and  craving  were  with  the 
wife  and  little  ones;   and  who  could  blame  them? 

But  all  my  personal  desire  was  not  to  be  of  their  num- 
ber. Had  I  been  married  before  the  war  I  should  have 
been  as  they;  but  since  I  was  free  to  espouse  the  cause 
which  had  become  mistress  of  everything  I  was  I  wanted 
to  espou:>e  it. 

270 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 


I  thought  I  had  espoused  it.  I  had  considered  my&elf 
bone  of  its  bone  and  flesh  of  its  flesh.  During  my  months 
of  fighting  it  had  been  a  satisfaction  to  think  of  myself 
as  at  liberty  to  make  any  sacrifice  of  limb  or  life,  and  leave 
no  heart  to  bewail  me,  no  eye  to  shed  a  tear,  and  no  care 
to  spring  up  behind  me.  My  family  would  be  content 
to  say,  "  Poor  old  Frar.!:,  he  did  his  duty  I"  Further  than 
that,  I  should  bring  no  regret  to  any  heart  but  Lovey's; 
and  of  him  I  was  persuaded  that  if  I  went  he  wouldn't 
wait  long  after  me.  Moreover,  I  had  guarded  against 
any  too  great  misfortune  overtaking  him  by  providing  for 
him  in  my  will. 

I  must  own,  furthermore,  to  another  misgiving:  ^  was 
not  too  sure  of  myself  from  the  point  of  view  of  i  ■-  A 
failing. 

Things  had  happened  in  the  trenches — ^they  had  dosed 
me  with  brandy,  whisky,  rum,  any  restorative  that  came 
handy,  on  a  number  of  occasions — and  there  had  been 
something  within  me  as  ready  to  be  waked  as  a  tiger  to 
the  taste  of  blood.  I  can  say  truthfully  enough  that  I 
had  never  yielded  to  the  desire  of  my  own  deliberate  act; 
but  I  must  also  say  truthfully  that  I  was  by  no  means  . 
sure  that  one  day  I  might  not  do  so.  We  had  talked 
often  enough,  as  men  with  men,  of  what  we  called  a  moral  . 
moratorium — and  the  talk  haunted  me  with  all  manner 
of  suggestions.  The  ban  on  what  is  commonly  called  sin 
was  to  be  lilted  for  the  period  of  the  war;  and  we  who 
had  to  deny  ourselves  so  much  were  not  to  deny  ourselves 
anything  that  came  easily  within  our  grasp.  It  seemed  ; 
an  alluring  condition,  and  one  which,  without  waiting  for 
the  license  of  supreme  war  councils  or  the  permission  of  the 
Church,  each  of  us  was  tempted  to  inaugurate  for  himself. 
In  a  situation  in  which  that  which  is  bom  of  the  flesh  is 
a7i 


THE   CITY  OF  COMRADES 


£auiitingly  before  one's  eyes,  and  millions  of  men  are 
thrown  together  as  flesh  and  little  more,  appetite  has  its 
mnuth  wide  open.  That  man  was  strong  indeed  who 
could  ignore  this  yearning  of  the  body;  and  that  man 
was  not  I. 

So  again  the  consciousness  of  freedom  was  like  a  reserve 
(iind  to  a  corporation.  It  was  something  on  which  to  fall 
back  if  everything  else  was  swept  away.  I  didn't  want 
to  go  to  the  devil;  but  if  I  went  no  one  would  suffer  but 
myself,  as  no  one  would  suffer  but  myself  if  a  German 
sniper  were  to  blow  the  top  off'  my  head.  Mind  you,  I 
am  not  saying  that  I  came  back  morally  weakened  from 
the  war;  I  only  came  back  with  a  sense  that  one  man's 
life  or  death — one  man's  ruin  or  salvation — was  of  no 
more  account  than  the  fate  of  a  roadside  bit  of  jewel-weed 
amid  the  infinite  seed-time  and  harvest  of  the  year.  I 
was  inured  to  loss  of  all  kinds  on  a  stupendous  scale.  I 
had  seen  thousands  blown  to  pieces  beside  me,  and  my 
mind  had  not  turned  aside  to  regret  them;  thousands 
would  see  me  blown  to  pieces  with  the  same  indifference 
:s  to  whether  I  lived  or  died.  Callousness  as  to  the  life 
and  death  of  others  induces  callousness  as  lo  one's  own; 
and  compared  to  life  and  death,  what  is  the  control  of 
a  mere  appetite?  No;  I  was  not  morally  weakened;  but 
I  was  morally  benumbed.  There  was  a  kind  of  moral 
moratorium  in  my  consciousness.  I  repeat  that  I  wasn't 
practically  making  use  of  it;  but  I  was  in  a  period  of  sus- 
pense in  which  I  admitted  to  myself  that  it  might  depend 
on  circumstances  whether  I  made  use  of  it  or  not. 

And  if  I  did,  and  if  I  was  married.  .  .  . 

From  the  sheer  possibility  my  mind  turned  in  dismay. 
To  the  celibacy  made  urgent  by  a  purpose  I  added  the 
celibacy  necessitated  by  a  curse.  As  the  one  counseled 
273 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

me  not  to  involve  myself  with  anybody  else,  so  the  other 
warned  me  not  to  involve  anybody  else  with  me.  Through 
warning  and  counsel  I  had  kept  myself  in  something  like 
a  state  of  serenity  till  now. 

It  was  a  state  of  serenity  with  just  one  dominating  im- 
pulse— ^to  get  back  among  the  comrades  with  whom  I 
had  already  found  shelter.  Whatever  I  had  that  could 
be  called  a  homing  instinct  was  bound  for  the  house  in 
Vandiver  Street.  There  had  been  times  when  I  thought 
I  had  outlived  that  phase,  times  when  what  seemed  like 
a  new  and  higher  companionship,  with  a  new  and  higher 
place  in  the  world  and  in  men's  esteen-  \alf  persuaded 
me  that  I  was  so  little  the  waster  in  fact  id  the  criminal 
in  possibility  that  the  Down  and  Out  v  no  more  to  me 
than  a  sloughed  skin  to  the  creature  that  has  thrown  it 
off.  But  I  always  waked  from  this  pleasant  fancy  to  see 
myself  as  in  essentials  the  same  gaunt,  tattered,  hungry 
fellow  who  had  come  with  his  buddy  to  beg  a  meal  and  a 
bed  of  the  Poor  Brothers  of  the  Order  of  Pity,  who  never 
refused  any  homeless,  besotted  man.  No  matter  what 
battles  I  fought,  what  medals  I  won,  what  banquets  I 
was  asked  to  sit  down  at,  my  place  was  among  them; 
and  among  them  I  hoped  to  do  my  work.  They  were  all 
American  citizens,  with  as  much  weight,  when  it  came  to 
the  franchise,  as  the  moneyed  potentates  of  Wall  Street. 
As  being  not  only  my  brethren,  but  a  nucleus  of  public 
opinion  as  well,  I  had  had  no  other  vision  before  me  for 
my  return  than  that  of  sharing  their  humble  refreshments 
and  talk,  together  with  that  blind,  desperate,  devoted 
fraternity  which  made  a  city  of  refuge  of  the  home  that 
had  once  been  Miss  Smedley's. 

And  since  coming  on  board  that  vision  was  threatened 
by  another — one  in  which  I  saw  myself  moving  amid  com- 
473 


m 


it 


tttE  CITY  OF  COAiRADES 

pliment*  and  flowers  and  polite  conTcntions,  in  all  the 
entanglii.g  convolutions  of  the  s.lken  net.  Whether  it 
woold  be  with  or  without  love  was,  in  my  state  of  mind, 
beside  the  mark.  Love  had  ceased  to  be,  for  the  time 
being,  at  any  rate,  the  ruling  factor  in  a  man's  decisions 
about  himself.  There  was  a  moratorium  of  love,  let  there 
be  one  of  morals  or  not.  "I've  got  to,"  had  been  the 
reply  to  love  made  by  twenty  millions  of  men  all  over  the 
world,  either  under  compulsion  or  of  their  own  free  will; 
and  women  had  accepted  the  answer  valiantly. 

The  difficulty  in  my  case  sprang  of  choice.  "I've  got 
to"  wasn't  imperative  enough.  Or  if  imperative,  it  wa« 
imperative  on  both  sides  equally. 


It'   I 


llJti 


CHAPTER  XXII 


y^ro  then  a  word  was  said  which,  though  solving  no 
r»  problems,  opened  up  a  new  line  of  suggestion. 

I  have  spoken  of  Regina  Barry  as  another  transmigrated 
joul.  I  have  said  that  I  could  not  tell  at  a  glance  in 
what  direction  her  spirit  hau  traveled;  nor  could  I  after 
some  days  of  intercourse.  As  much  as  she  had  been  frank 
and  open  in  the  other  period  of  our  acquaintance,  she  had 
now  become  mysteiy  to  me—elusive,  tantalizing,  sealed. 
By  the  end  of  a  few  days  I  began  to  perceive  that  she 
came  near  me  only,  as  I  might  say,  officially.  If  there 
was  danger  or  storm  or  darkness — ^we  sailed  without  I-ghts 
— she  was  within  reach  of  me.  She  was  within  reach  of 
me  many  a  time  if  I  wanted  no  more  than  a  book  that  had 
fallen  or  a  rug  that  had  been  left  elsewhere  on  the  deck. 
It  was  strange  how  hovering  and  protective  her  presence 
could  be  for  the  moment  of  need,  and  how  far  withdrawn 
the  minute  I  could  get  along  alone. 

And  f?r  withdrawn  the  transmigrated  spirit  seemed  to 
me  at  all  times.  Do  what  I  would  to  traverse  the  dis- 
tance, I  found  her  as  remote  as  ever.  Do  what  I  would 
to  break  down  her  defenses  or  transcend  them,  they  still 
rose  between  us,  impalpable,  impregnable,  and  all  but 
indiscernible.  She  had  traveled  away  from  me  as  I  had 
traveled  away  from  her;  and  yet  now  that  we  met  in 
space  there  was  some  indefinable  bond  between  us. 

It  was  in  right  of  that  bond  that  I  asked  her  one  day 
why  she  was  going  home. 

27S 


'i-t       'I 


THE   CITY   OF   COMRADES 

"Oh,  for  all  lortf  of  reawM."  She  added,  "One  of 
them  if  on  account  of  father." 

"Isn';hewell?" 

"Yes,  he's  well  enough.    That  isn't  it." 

As  she  did  not  explain,  I  refrained  from  asking  further, 
not  because  I  didn't  want  to  know,  but  because  I  knew 
she  would  tell  me. 

It  was  our  usual  trysting-place,  the  deck  rail,  though 
not  now  that  which  ran  along  the  side  of  the  ship,  but  the 
one  across  the  portion  of  the  upper  deck  toward  the  bow, 
allowing  us  to  look  down  on  the  pit  in  which  the  few 
steerage  passengers  took  the  air.  They  were  standing 
about  in  helpless,  idle  groups,  some  ten  or  twelve  oddly 
clad,  oddly  hatted  men,  with  three  or  four  of  their  women, 
and  a  white  staring  baby,  whose  fingers,  as  it  hung  over 
its  mother's  shoulder,  dangled  like  bits  of  string. 

We  were  in  the  Gulf  Stream,  so  that  the  day  was  com- 
paratively mild.  A  north  wind  not  too  violent  blew  away 
the  possibility  of  fog  and  sent  an  occasional  shaft  of  sun- 
shine through  the  rifts  in  the  great  gray  clouds.  The 
swell  left  over  from  the  gale  of  the  past  few  days  tossed 
the  ship's  nose  into  the  air  with  a  long,  slow,  rhythmic 
heave,  slightly  to  port,  and  gave  to  good  sailors  like  our- 
selves that  pleasant  sensation  of  swinging  which  a  bird 
must  get  on  a  tree. 

Wind  and  water  were  fraught  with  the  nameless  peace- 
ful intimations  of  the  New  World  after  the  turmoil  of  the 
Old  one.  It  is  difficult  to  say  how  one  seizes  them,  but 
they  come  with  the  Gulf  Stream.  I  have  always  noticed 
that  half-way  over  there  is  a  change  in  the  aura,  the 
atmosphere.  It  throws  a  breath  of  balsam  on  the  wind, 
and  flashes  on  the  waves  that  gleam  which  Cabot,  Jacque* 
Cartier,  and  the  Pilgrims  saw  when  they  sighted  land. 
276 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

It  if  that  wonderful  seme  of  going  wettward  which,  I 
•uppote,  it  primal  to  the  initinct.  Going  eaitward,  one 
it  going  back  to  beginningi,  to  thirds  lived,  to  thingi 
over  and  done  with.  Going  westwai  '  all  is  hope.  It  is 
the  onward  reach,  the  upward  grasp,  ':e  endless  striving. 
It  is  the  lifting  of  the  hands,  the  straining  of  the  power 
to  achieve,  the  yearning  of  the  inner  man.  The  thing 
'  that  is  finished  is  left  behind,  and  the  thing  to  be  wrestled 
with  and  done  is  in  front  of  one.  The  very  sun  goes 
before  one  with  a  iiplendid  gesture  of  beckoning — on  to 
work,  on  to  self-deni;il,  on  to  triumph  and  success — and 
when  it  sets  it  sets  with  a  promise  of  a  morrow. 

We  had  already  begun  to  feel  that;  and  on  my  part 
in  a  spirit  of  compunction.  I  was  going,  as  far  as  lay 
within  my  small  powers,  to  turn  the  west  back  upon  the 
east  again,  to  reverse  nature  by  making  the  stream  flow 
toward  its  source.  I  was  far  from  insensible  to  the  pity 
of  it,  for  I  had  seen  the  effect  on  my  own  country. 

I  had  seen  my  own  country — that  baby  giant,  whose 
very  existence  as  a  country  antedated  but  little  the  yar 
when  I  was  born — I  had  seen  it  pause  in  its  work,  in  its 
play,  in  its  task  of  self-development — listen — shiver — 
thrill — throw  down  the  ax,  the  spade,  the  hammer,  the 
pick — go  up  from  the  field,  the  factory,  and  the  mine-- 
and  offer  itself  willingly.  It  was  to  me  as  if  that  was 
fuir.Iled  which  was  spoken  by  the  prophet: 

"I  heard  the  voice  of  the  Lord,  saying,  Whom  shall  I 
send,  and  who  will  go  for  us?  Then  said  I,  Here  am  I; 
send  me." 

I  had  seen  that  first  flotilla  of  i.nirty-one  ships  sail  down 

the  St.  Lawrence,  out  into  the  ocean,  and  over  to  the 

shores  of  England,  as  the  first  great  gift  of  men  which 

the  New  World  had  ever  made  to  the  Old,  as  some  return 

277 


I.    J' 


I  ll 


THE   CITY  OF  COMRADES 

for  all  the  Old  had  poured  out  upon  the  New.  I  had 
leen  it,  for  I  was  on  it.  We  went  gaily,  ai  hop-picken  go 
to  a  bean-featt.  We  knew  it  was  war,  but  the  word  had 
no  meaning  for  ui.  What  it  meant  we  found  out  at  Ypret, 
at  Vimy,  at  Leni.  But  when  I  think  of  my  country  now 
I  think  of  her  no  longer  at  a  baby  giant.  She  hat  become 
a  girl  widow — valiant,  dry-eyed,  high-souled,  ready  to  go 
on  with  the  interrupted  work  and  do  bigger  work — but 
a  widow  all  the  lame. 

And  the  (word  that  had  pierced  one  heart  I  was  bringing 
to  pierce  another.  I  was  sorry;  but  sorrow  didn't  keep 
me,  couldn't  keep  me  from  being  terribly  in  earnest. 

And  in  on  these  thoughtt  Regina  Barry  broke  as  if  she 
had  been  following  them. 

"Look  at  the  waves  where  the  sun  catches  them. 
Aren't  they  like  flashing  steel?  It's  just  as  if  all  the 
drowned  hands  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea  were  holding  up 
swords  to  the  people  of  America,  begging  them  to  go  and 
fight." 

I  looked  at  her,  stairtled.    "You  feel  that  way?" 

She  looked  at  me,  indignant.  "Certainly.  How  else 
could  I  feel?" 

"Oh,  I  didn't  know.  Americans  feel  so  many  different 
ways." 

"  Because  they  don't  know.  I'm  going  back  " — she  gave 
a  light,  deprecating  laugh — "I'm  going  back  to  tell 
them." 

I  was  still  more  startled.    "Tell  whom?" 

"Any  one  I  know.  Every  one  knows  some  one.  I 
don't  mean  to  say  that  I'm  a  Joan  of  Are;  but  I  shall  do 
what  I  can." 

"And  how  shall  you  begin?" 

"I'll  begin  with  father  and  with—" 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

She  stopped  at  the  lecond  name,  though  to  me  the  fact 
Jid  not  become  ligniiicant  till  afterward. 

"That'i  what  I  meant,"  ihe  resumed,  "when  I  said  I 
was  going  back  on  hi*  account." 

"You  raeanf 

"He  doesn't  see  why  we  should  be  in  it.  He's  tike  so 
many  Americans;  he  hasn't  emerged  from  the  eighteen- 
hundreds.  He  still  thinks  of  the  New  World  as  if  it  was 
a  new  creation  that  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  Old.  He 
doesn't  see  that  there's  only  one  world  and  one  race  of 
men,  wherever  they  are  and  whatever  they  do.  To  him 
Americans  are  like  souls  that  get  over  to  paradise.  They're 
safe  and  can  afford  to  dwell  safely.  They're  no  longer 
concerned  with  the  sorrows  and  struggles  of  the  people 
left  on  earth." 

It  was  to  get  light  on  my  own  way  that  I  :  .:ed,  "And 
what  are  you  going  to  say  to  convince  him?" 

"I  don't  know  yet.  I  shall  say  what  the  moment 
•uggests." 

"And  you're  sure  it  will  suggest  something?" 

Her  great  eyes  burned  like  coals  as  she  turned  them  on 
me  in  protest  at  the  question. 

"Suggest  something?  You  might  as  well  ask  if  the 
air  suggests  something.  It  suggests  that  I  breathe  it; 
but  I  don't  have  to  think  of  it  beforehand,  when  the 
whole  world  is  full  of  it." 

"Full  of  what?" 

She  considered  the  question,  finding  in  it  all  I  meant 
to  put  there. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  answered  at  last.    "That  is,  I 

don't  know  in  any  sense  that  would  go  into  a  few  words. 

There's  so  much  of  it.    The  minute  you  try  to  express 

it  from  any  one  point  of  view  you  find  you're  inadequate." 

479 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 


I  was  still  seeking  light. 

"But  when  you  try  to  do  it  from  several  points  of  view 
—correlating  themf 

"Even  then — "  She  paused,  reflecting,  shaking  her 
head  as  she  went  on  again,  as  if  to  shake  away  a  con- 
sciousness of  the  impossible.  "I  don't  try.  There's  no 
use  in  trying.  It's  so  immense — so  far  beyond  me.  It's 
grown  so,  too.  When  it  first  began  I  could  more  or  less 
compass  it — or,  I  thought  I  could.  Now  it's  become  like 
nature — or  God — or  any  of  the  colossal  infinite  concep- 
tions— it  means  different  things  to  dilFerent  minds." 

"That  is,  we  can  only  take  of  it  what  we  take  of  the 
ocean^ach  a  few  drops — no  one  able  to  take  all?" 

"Something  like  that.  And  we  can  only  give  a  few 
drops — ^just  what  we've  got  the  measure  to  take  up — 
some  a  little  more,  some  a  little  less — but  no  one  more 
than  a  little  as  compared  to  the  whole.  That's  why  I'm 
not  going  to  try  to  explain." 

"Then  how  are  you  going  to  make  them  understand?" 

"I'll  tell  them — I'll  do  what  I  can  to  show  them — that 
the  greatest  movement  of  all  time  is  going  on — and 
America  is  taking  no  national  part  in  it.  I'll  try  to  make 
them  see  that  it  isn't  just  to  avenge  the  few  American 
lives  lost  through  the  U-boats,  or  to  free  Belgium,  or  to 
put  down  autocracy,  or  to  do  any  one  or  two  or  three  of 
the  things  that  have  been  set  before  us.  It  isn't  even 
the  whole  of  them,  just  taken  as  so  many  human  mo- 
tives." 

"But  you'll  have  to  tell  them  what  it  is,  won't  you? 
It  won't  do  just  to  put  before  them  what  it  isn't." 

"But  how  can  I?  How  can  any  one?  It  would  be 
like  trying  to  tell  them  what  nature  is.  It's  a  universal 
composite,  made  up  of  everything;  but  you  couldn't  go 
280 


'llir 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

about  the  country  explaining  it  in  lectures.  The  nearest 
I  could  come  to  it  would  be  in  saying  that  it's  the  great 
dramatic  conflict  between  good  and  evil  to  which  human 
nature  has  been  working  up  ever  since  it  committed  its 
first  sin;  but  the  words  in  which  to  do  that  have  been  so 
hard  worked  and  are  so  terribly  worn  that  they've  be- 
come a  kind  of  ditty.  It  seems  to  me  best  just  to  talk 
to  them  simply — and  let  them  construct  the  monster  out 
of  the  bones  I  lay  before  them.  They'll  do  it.  The  pub- 
lic is  not  very  quick,  but  when  it  gets  going  it's  pretty 
instinctive." 

"Oh,  then  you're  going  to  tackle  the  public?" 

"I'm  going  to  tackle  any  one  to  whom  I  can  get  access." 

"You  spoke  just  now  of  lectures." 

"I'll  speak  of  anything  that  will  help  me  to  get  the 
message  across.  That's  why  I  mention  father  and — " 
Again  she  hesitated  at  a  name,  going  on  with  an  elision: 
— "  first  of  all.  They  are  simply  the  first  I  shall  be  able  to 
talk  to.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  not  many  as  yet  have  been 
over  there  and  come  back  to  America — so  that  there's  a 
good  deal  of  curiosity  still  unsatisfied — and  so  one  will 
get  a  chance.  You  must  have  noticed  already  how  dear- 
ly Americans,  especially  the  women,  like  to  be  talked  to. 
We're  talked  to  so  much  by  experts  on  all  subjects  that 
we  should  burst  with  knowledge  if  our  minds  weren't  like 
those  swimming-tanks  with  fresh  water  running  in  and 
out  of  them  all  the  time." 

"So  you're  really  going  to  make  it  a  kind  of  business?" 

She  spread  her  hands  apart,  palms  outward. 

"What  else  can  I  do?    I  assure  you  it  isn't  any  desire 

for  publicity  or  that  sort  of  thing.    I'm  just — I'm  just 

driven  on.    It's  like  what  some  one  says  in  the  Bible — 

I've  taken  to  reading  the  Bible  lately — it  seems  the  only 

U  281 


I       I, 


THE   CItY  OF   COMRADES 

thing  big  enough  in  spirit  to  go  *ith  the  big  tinte* — 
but  some  one  says  there:  'Woe  unto  me,  if  I  preach  not  the 
gospel  r  Well,  it's  the  same  way  with  me.  Woe  unto 
me  if  I  don't  do  this  thing!  It's  taken  possession  of  me; 
I  can't  do  anything  else;  and  so  I'm  going  back — " 

I  was  expressing  but  one  of  the  host  of  thoughts  that 
crowded  on  me  as  I  said:  "You've  got  the  tremendous 
advantage  of  being  an  American.  You  can  say  what 
you  like.     If  I  were — " 

She  stood  off  and  surveyed  me.  "You  don't  need  to 
say  anything.  You  speak  for  yourself.  One  has  only 
to  look  at  you." 

I  smiled  ruefully.  "I  know  I'm  pretty  well  battered 
up." 

"Oh,  it  isn't  that." 

"What  is  it,  then?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  It's  just-^t's  just  everything. 
You're  a  type.  I'm  not  speaking  of  you  personally,  but 
of  a  lot — hundreds — thousands — I've  seen — young  fellows 
who  make  me  think  of  some  other  words  in  the  Bible." 

"What  are  they?" 

"They're  in  Isaiah,  I  think.  Everybody  knows  them." 
She  recited  in  a  smooth,  rich  voice  that  gave  new  beauty 
to'the  familiar  passage:  "'Surely  he  hath  borne  our  griefs, 
and  carried  our  sorrows:  ...  He  was  wounded  for  our 
transgressions,  he  was  bruised  for  our  iniquities:  the 
chastisement  of  our  peace  was  upon  him;  and  with  his 
stripes  we  are  healed.  All  we  like  sheep  have  gone  astray; 
we  have  turned  every  one  to  his  own  way;  and  the  Lord 
hath  laid  on  him  the  iniquity  of  us  all.'"  Her  voice  rose 
— and  fell  again.  "'He  was  oppressed,  and  he  was 
afflicted,  yet  he  opened  not  his  mouth:  he  is  brought  as 
a  lamb  to  the  slaughter,  and  as  a  shetp  before  her  shearers 
aSa 


THE   CITY  OF  COMRADES 


u  dumb,  so  he  openeth  iK<t  his  mouth.' "  She  resumed  in 
a  colloquial  tone:  "I've  seen  so  much  of  that,  haven't 
you?  The  lamb  led  dumb  to  the  slaughter,  and  the 
quiet,  wounded  man  hardly  opening  his  mouth  for  a 
,  moan.    It's  heartbreaking." 

"And  yet  you'd  bring  your  own  people  into  it." 

"Because  it's  sublime.  Because  I've  seen  for  myself 
that  the  people  who  take  part  in  it  are  raised  to  levels 
they  never  knew  it  was  possible  to  reach.  Haven't  you 
found  the  same  thing  for  yourself?" 

"Oh,  I?    I'm  only— " 

"You're  a  man — and  a  young  man.  You're  a  young 
man  who's  been — I  can't  express  it.  It's  all  in  that  fact. 
The  people  at  home  will  only  have  to  look  at  you  to  see 
what  language  could  never  put  before  them.  Language 
isn't  equal  to  it.  Imagination  isn't  equal  to  it  when  the 
thing  is  over.  Don't  you  find  that?  Doesn't  it  often 
teem  to  you,  now  that  you're  out  of  it,  as  if  it  was  a  dream 
that  had  half  escaped  you?  You  try  to  tell  it — and  you 
can't.  That's  why  the  people  who've  been  there  and 
come  back  so  often  have  nothing  to  say.  That's  why  so 
many  of  the  books — except  those  that  contain  diaries 
jotted  down  on  the  minute — ^that  are  written  afterward 
are  so  often  disappointing.  It's  lik':;  jl  great  secret  in 
every  man's  soul  that  he  knows  and  thinks  about,  and 
can  never  get  out  of  him.  So  I  shall  make  no  attempt 
to  do  more  than  to  tell  the  little  things,  the  small  human 
details—" 

You  will  see  that  I  was  following  my  own  train  of 
thought  as  I  broke  in,  "But  New  York  life  will  get  hold 
of  you  again." 

"It  can't  get  hold  of  me  again,  because  there  will  be 
nothing  for  it  to  catch  on  by.  That's  all  over  for  me. 
283 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 


It  could  no  more  seize  anything  I  am  now  than  you  or 
I" —  she  pointed  to  a  flock  of  little  birds  riding  up  and 
down  on  a  long,  smooth  billow — ^"from  the  deck  of  this 
ship  could  catch  one  of  those  Mother  Carey's  chickens." 

My  sensations  were  those  of  a  man  who  has  received 
an  extraordinary  bit  of  good  news,  like  that  of  a  great 
artistic  triumph  or  the  inheritance  of  a  fortune.  It  was 
something  that  went  to  the  foundations  of  life,  bathing 
them  in  security  and  peace.  As  we  continued  to  talk 
the  swing  of  the  boat  became  the  lulling  of  strong  arms. 

The  conflict  of  which  for  the  past  few  days  my  mind 
had  been  the  battle-ground  was  suddenly  appeased. 
Woman,  love,  marriage,  the  more  comforting  elements  in 
life — ^were  no  longer  in  opposition  to  what  had  become 
a  man's  pressing  and  sacred  duties.  There  could  be  a  love 
which  asked  for  no  moratfo-ium;  or  rather,  there  could 
be  a  woman  with  the  courage  of  a  solaier. 

I  began  to  see  her  as  comparable  to  that  crusader's 
wife  who,  disguised  as  a  prge,  followed  her  lord  on  his 
journeys,  to  share  his  perils  and  minister  to  his  needs. 
In  a  modern  girl  it  was  not  only  romantic;  it  was  ador- 
able. That  it  should  have  been  done  for  me  was  beyond 
my  power  to  believe.  None  but  the  bravest  and  most 
daring  spirit  would  have  attempted  it — none  but  the 
heart  capable  of  climbing  higher  and  more  adventurously 
still.  I  had  known  her  for  a  gallant  soul  from  that  mid- 
night minute  when  she  pulled  aside  her  hangings  and  found 
me  lurking  in  her  chamber;  but  I  had  never  made  a  fore- 
cast of  the  heroisms  and  fidelities  expanding  here  like  the 
beauty  from  the  heart  of  a  rose. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 


CO  we  came  to  that  last  evening  on  board,  of  which 
<J  I  must  now  tell  you.  It  had  taken  me  the  interven- 
ing time  -.0  get  used  to  the  new  outlook.  The  habit  of 
seeing  myself  surrounded  by  a  whole  stockade  of  pro- 
hibitions was  too  strong  to  overcome  in  a  flash.  I  had 
to  let  my  mind  emerge  into  freedom  gently,  telling  myself 
each  day  that  with  a  wife  like  this  I  could  serve  the  cause 
more  devotedly  than  ever,  smce  she  would  be  serving  it 
too. 

Of  that  dedication  to  a  cause  I  was  possibly  too  much 
aware.  My  uniform  made  nie  aware  of  it.  My  game  leg 
and  my  sightless  eye  made  me  aware  of  it.  The  need  of 
whole  peoples,  like  the  French  and  British  and  Italian, 
of  every  man  who  could  fire  a  gun  or  ram  home  a  bayonet 
or  speak  a  rousing  word— that  more  than  anything  else 
seemed  to  put  a  consecration  upon  me  of  which  I  was 
as  foolishly  and  yet  as  loftily  conscious  as  a  modern  king, 
accustomed  to  a  bowler  hat,  when  he  rides  through  the 
stree'  t  with  his  crown  on. 

And  on  the  last  evening  there  was  enough  of  the 
ecstatic  in  the  air  to  justify  this  sense  of  a  mission. 

The  voyage,  which  had  not  been  without  the  exciting 
stimulus  of  danger,  was  successfully  over.  The  west 
was  actually  reached,  and  the  things  done  left  behind  us. 
The  things  to  be  done  were  making  our  pulses  beat  faster 
and  our  energies  yearn  forward.  To-morrow  with  its 
285 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 


(ummont  to  activity  wai  more  keenly  in  our  consdoiu* 
new  than  to-day.  Doctors,  nurses,  returning  soldier*, 
the  sparse  handful  of  business  men — we  were  already  in 
heart  ashore,  walking  in  streets,  riding  in  tram-cars, 
eating  in  dining-rooms,  sleeping  in  beds,  taking  part  in 
hard  work,  and  deeming  these  things  a  privilege.  Voices 
and  laughter  in  the  clear,  still  night,  and  the  clicking  of 
heels  on  ■*.€  deck,  were  part  of  the  relief  and  joyousness. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  we  had  picked  up  the  Nantucket 
light-ship,  which  rested  like  a  star  on  the  water.  Now 
the  horizon  was  being  strung  with  beads  of  light,  one,  two, 
three,  or  little  clusters  at  a  time,  behind  which  we  knew 
that  advancing  night  was  lighting  myriads  of  lamps  all 
the  way  to  the  Pacific  On  the  Atlantic  coast  it  was  al- 
ready dark,  with  dties  and  towns  ablaze,  and  villages 
and  farm-houses  lit  by  kindly,  shimmering  windows.  In 
the  Middle  West  it  was  twilight,  with  electrics  spangling 
the  office-buildings  here  and  there,  and  pale-gold  flowers 
strewn  over  the  prairie  floors.  Beyond  the  Mississippi  it 
would  still  be  day,  but  day  dissolving  gorgeously,  softly, 
into  sunset  and  moonrise  and  the  everlasting  magic  of  the 
stars. 

As  she  and  I  hung  '^ver  the  deck  rail  side  by  side  we 
felt  ourselves  on  the  edge  of  wonders.  Thi  Old  World  Was 
in  need  of  us,  and  we  were  in  need  of  the  I^ew.  To  us 
^o  were  New  World  bom,  and  who  were  coming  back 
to  generous,  easy-going  welcome  after  the  unspeakable 
things  we  had  seen,  the  craving  for  New  World  brother- 
hood and  vigor  was  like  that  of  huhger  or  thirst.  This 
much  we  admitted  in  so  many  words — tven  she. 

She  was  still  elusive;  she  was  still  mysterious.  Though 
during  the  past  few  days  she  had  not  resisted  a  certain 
habit  as  to  the  place  and  hour  at  which  we  sbould  find 
386 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

ounelvea  together  and  had  been  willing  to  talk  freely 
on  any  theme  connected  with  the  cauae,  she  took  eight 
from  a  hint  of  the  penonal,  like  a  bird  at  an  approaching 
footstep. 

Nevertheless,  she  was  so  far  responsive  as  to  say  in 
answer  to  some  question  of  mine,  "My  immediate  plans—" 

I  broke  in  abruptly,  "Let  me  tell  you  about  your  im- 
mediate plans." 

As  the  deck  was  faintly  illuminated,  since  we  were 
again  sailing  with  lights,  I  saw  that  change  in  her  eyes 
which  comes  when  a  fire  on  a  hearth  bursts  into  a  con- 
flagration. 

Probably  my  tone  and  the  change  in  my  manner  had 
startled  her. 

"You  t    What  ?"  she  began,  confusedly. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  your  plans  are;  but  before  that  let 
me  tell  you  something  else." 

She  put  up  her  hand.    "Wait I    Don't—" 

But  it  was  too  late  to  stop  me.  I  couldn't  have  stopped 
tnyself.  I  was  carried  on  by  the  impetus  that  came  from 
my  having  been  so  many  years  held  back.  I  was  no 
longer  the  consecrated  servant  of  a  cause.  As  for  having 
been  a  drunkard  and  a  thief,  no  shadow  of  remembrance 
stayed  with  me.  I  was  simply  a  man  head  over  heels  in 
love  with  a  woman,  and  in  all  sorts  of  stupid,  stumbling 
phrases  saying  so. 

She  listened  because  she  couldn't  do  anything  else 
without  walking  away;  but  she  listened  with  a  kind  of 
aloofness.  With  her  clasped  hands  resting  on  the  rail  and 
her  little,  black  silhouette  held  quietly  erect,  she  gaaed  olF 
toward  a  great  white  star,  which  I  suppose  must  have 
been  Capella,  and  heard  my  tale  because  she  couldn't 
stop  it. 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

"LiRen,"  I  went  on,  leaning  on  an  arm  extended  along 
the  rail.  "I'll  tell  you  your  itory.  I've  pieced  it  to- 
gether and  I  know  what  it  it.  I  didn't  know  it  when 
I  came  on  board.     It  puzzled  me." 

Her  lip*  moved,  but  there  waa  no  turn  of  her  head  or 
itir  of  her  person. 

"Please  don't.  I'm — I'm  not  sure  that  J  could  bear 
it." 

"Why  shouldn't  I?  You've  done  certain  things.  Let 
me  give  you  their  interpretation." 

"If  I  do — "  she  began,  weakly. 

I  couldn't  allow  her  to  continue. 

"I  see  now  the  explanation  of  so  many  things  that  be- 
wildered me  at  first— that  made  me  suffer.  That  day  at 
Rosyth,  for  instance,  when  you  went  in  and  left  me,  you 
'didn't  despise  or  hate  me.  You  may  have  been  dis- 
illusioned— " 

"It  isn't  the  word,"  she  murmured,  still  motionless, 
and  looking  off  at  the  big  white  star.  "I'd  been  thinking 
of  you  as  the  kind  of  man  I'd — I'd  been  looking  for  so 
long." 

"And  you  saw  I  was  less  so  than  any  of  the  others." 

"I'm  not  saying  that.  But  if  you  think  it  was  easy 
to  tear  up  all  one's  conceptions  by  the  roots  and  plant 
in  new  ones — however  kindly — all  at  once — " 

"Oh  no,  I  don't  I  not  now.  But  at  that  time  I  didn't 
know  you.  It's  only  been  since  coming  on  board  and 
finding  out  what  you've  done — " 

Curiosity  prompted  her  to  glance  round  at  me. 

"Then  it  was  only  since  coming  on  board?" 

"Oh,  it  was  simple  enough.    It's  silly  to  keep  up  the 
•secret.     I  was  talking,  while  we  were  still  in  the  dock 
at  Liverpool,  with  that  handsome  Canadian  nurse." 
28S 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

*'Mij»  Ogden.    She  wa»  matron  of  the  hospital  _. 

"She  knew  who  you  were.  She  couldn't  tell  me  your 
name,  but  she  said— or  Miss  Prynne  said— that  you'd  come 
over  with  Evelyn— that  you'd  been  st  Taplow  with 
Mabel — " 

"I  know;  the  sort  of  thing  that  goes  round  among 
nurses." 

"And  so  I  put  two  and  two  together  and  formed  a 
theory." 

"You  needn't  tell  me  what  it  is.     Please  don't." 

"But  I  want  to."  I  hurrie  :  on  before  she  could  pro- 
test further.  "When  you  saw  that  you'd—you'd  hurt 
me— that  day  at  Rosyth— and  that  I  had  disappeared— 
and  gone  into  the  army— and  away  to  England— you  got 
into  touch  with  Evelyn — " 

"I  wanted  to  do  something,"  she  declared,  in  a  tone 
of  self-defense.  "  I  couldn't  help  it  when  I  knew  the  need 
was  going  to  be  so  great.  We  didn't  see  that  all  at  once, 
because  we  thought  the  war  was  going  to  be  over  in  a  very 
little  while.     But  when  we  began  to  realize  it  wasn't—" 

"Oh,  I  don't  say  you  did  it  all  on  my  account." 

Though  this  was  meant  to  provoke  either  admission 
or  denial,  she  glided  over  it. 

"It  wasn't  easy  to  do  anything  in  New  York,  because 
we  hadn't  got  that  far  as  yet;  and  so  1  naturally  went  to 
Canada.  When  I  did  so  Annette  gave  me  a  line  of 
introduction  to  Evelyn." 

"And  you  told  her  about  me." 

She  fell  into  my  trap  so  far  as  to  say:  "I  didn't  tell  her. 
I  simply  let  her  guess."    . 

"Guess  what?" 
All  I  ever  said  to  her  in  words  was  to  ask  her  never 
to  mention  my  name  to  you." 
289 


^HE   CITY  OF  COMRADES 

"But  whyr 

"I  did  the  tame  with  Lady  Rideover  when  the  took 
me  on  at  Taplow." 
"Why— again  f 

"For  the  reason  that— that  if  you  ever  came  to  £nd 
out  what  I  w*  doing  you'd  mifunderstand  it;  ju«t  aa  I 
lee  you — you  do." 

"But  I  don't.  I  don't  misunderstand  it  when  I  say 
that  in  going  to  my  sisters  you  wanted  to  be — you  mustn't 
be  oiFendedl— you  wanted  to  be  near  me— to  watch  over 
me  as  much  as  possible." 

"You  were  the  only  man  I  knew  at  that  time  who'd 
taken  the  actual  step  of  going  to  the  war.  If  there'd  been 
any  others — " 

"It  wouldn't  have  mattered  if  there'd  been  a  hun- 
dred. I  don't  misunderstand  it  when  I  say  that  as 
•oon  as  you  knew  I  was  gr  ig  home  by  this  boat  you 
arranged — " 

"To  go  home  by  it  too,"  she  forestalled,  quickly,  "so 
that  you  should  have  somebody  near  you  who  could  get 
about  in  the  normal  way  in  case  there  was  danger.    I 
admit  that.    It's  perfectly  true."    She  turned  round  on 
me  with  fire  in  her  manner  as  well  as  in  her  eyes.    "  But 
what  do  you  think  I'm  going  home  for?" 
I  repeated  what  she  had  said  a  few  days  before: 
"You're  going  home  on  account  of  your  father — and 
to  interest  him  and  other  Americans  in  American  duty 
as  to  the  war." 
^  "That's  a  reason;   it's  the  reason  I  find  it  easiest  to 
give.     But  I  mustn't  hide  it  from  you  now  that — that 
I've — I've  another." 

I  made  one  of  my  long  mental  leaps.    I  made  it  as  a 
nan  might  take  the  one  chance  of  life  m  leaping  a  crevasse, 
ago 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

knowing  that  there  a-.e  mora  chance*  that  he  will  be  daahed 
to  piecet  in  the  chasm 

"You're  going  home  to  be  married." 

There  wat  a  kind  of  awe  in  the  way  the  d.  '.m  off  from 
me. 

"You're  extraordinary,"  ihe  breathed,  faintly.  "Mi«s 
Ogden  didn't  tell  you  that." 

I  had  not  cleared  the  crevane.  I  wat  itruggling  des- 
perately on  the  edge  of  it,  while  beneath  me  was  the 
abyss. 

"You're  going  home  to  marry  me." 

I  think  she  gave  a  little  bitter  laugh.  At  any  rate, 
there  was  the  echo  of  it  in  her  tone,  as  she  said,  with  sar- 
donic promptness:  "How  can  I  be  going  home  to  marry 
you,  when-^hen  I  never  knew  till  within  half  an  hour 
that  you— that  you  cared  anything  about  me?" 

I,  too,  mutt  have  laughed,  the  statement  struck  me 
at  to  absurd. 

"What?    You  never  knew— ?" 

She  shook  her  head  with  an  emphasis  almost  violent. 

"You  may  have  known,"  she  said,  in  that  voice  which, 
after  all,  could  not  be  called  bitter,  for  the  reason  that 
it  was  reproachful,  "but  I'd  come  to  the  conclusion  that" 
—she  tried  to  carry  the  situation  off  with  a  second  laugh, 
a  laugh  that  ended  as  something  like  a  sob— "that  vou 
didn't." 

I  leaned  down  toward  her,  speaking  the  words  right 
into  her  face. 
"Didn  t  carer 
She  nodded  silently.  ^ 

"For  God's  sake,  what  made  you  think  that?" 
"Oh — everything !" 
"Everythii^?    When?    Howr 
a9i 


THE   CITY  OF  COMRADilS 

She  WM  dmng  her  ben  to  .Mivey  the  impretiioa  that 
it  didn't  matter. 

"Eveiything— alwiyi— in  New  York— at  Atlantic  City 
— .  ere  cipeciallyl    And  lauly— " 

"Yeif    Lately?" 

"Lately— at  Taplow." 

"But  at  Taplow— howf    In  Heaven'i  name— how?" 

"Oh,  I  wa*  in  and  out  of  your  i:  ■•m." 

"So  I  understand;  but  what  of  th.  t?" 

"Nothing;   nothing;  only— only  what  I  law." 

"Well,  what  did  you  see?" 

Instead  of  answering  this  question  at  once  she  shifted 
her  ground. 

"If  you  cared — as  you  say^-why  didn't  you  tell  some 
one?" 

"Tell  some  one  ?    Who  could  I  tell  ?" 

"Oh,  any  one.  Lady  Rideover,  for  one.  She'd  made 
a  promise  not  to  mention  me;  but  you  hadn't." 

"But  why  should  I  have  mentioned  you  when  I  never 
supposed  she  had  any  notion — " 

"But  you  see  that's  it.  If  you'd  cared — so  much — 
you'd  have  done  it — to  one  of  jour  sister*  or  the  other. 
But  you  didn't— not  to  either;  and  so  they  got  the  idea—" 

"Yes?    What  idea  did  they  get?    Goon.    Tell  me." 
^      I  noticed  that  she  was  twisting  and  untwisting  her 
fingers,  and  that  she  had  begun  throwing  me  quick, 
nervous  glances  through  the  hsif-light. 

"It's  no  use  telling  you,  because  it  doei-i't  matter. 
That  is,  itMoesn't  matter  now.     Everything's-  arranged." 

"We'll  talk  about  that  later.  I  want  to  know  what 
idea  Mabel  and  Evelyn  got." 

"They  didn't  get  it  exactly.    They  were  only  beginning 
to  get  it  when  I  made  them  understand  that  I  was  going 
292 


THE  CITY  OF   COMRADES 

back  to  be —  Ob,  why  do  you  mike  me  talk  about  itt 
Why  do  you  bring  it  all  up  now,  when  it  can't  do  any 
goodr 

To  (et  at  the  facta  I  wat  obliged  to  ipcak  with  the 
leverity  one  uiet  toward  a  difficult  child. 

"I  want  you  to  tell  me  what  idea  Mabel  and  Evelyn 
got. 

"lan't  it  perfectly  evident  what  idea  they'd  get?  Any 
one  would  get  it  when  you — when  you  never  said  a  word — 
not  the  leait,  little,  confidential  word — and  you  io  ill  I — 
and  blind! — and  to  your  own  (inenl — and  that  Miu 
Farley  there!" 

I  passed  over  the  reference  to  Miss  Farley  because  I 
couldn't  see  what  it  meant.  I  had  enough  to  do  in 
seizing  the  new  sugR  stion  that  had  come  to  me. 

"They  didn't  think — they  couldn't  have  thought — 
that  there  was  nothing  on  my  side." 

"And  everything  on  mine.  That's  precisely  the  in- 
fierence  they  drew.  Girls  do  go  about,  you  kr.w,  giving 
people  to  understand  that  men — " 

"But  not  girls  like  you." 

"Yes,  girls  like  me;  or  sufficiently  like  me.  And  so  I 
had — in  sheer  self-respect — to  let  Lady  Rideover  see  that 
there  was  nothing  in  it  of  the  kind  of  thing  she  thought, 
and  that  I  was  actually  going  home  to  be — " 

"  But  didn't  she  see  ?  Didn't  she  know  ?  Didn't  every- 
body see?    Didn't  everybody  know?" 

In  the  two  brief  sentences  that  came  out  with  something 
like  a  groan  she  threw  tremendous  emphasis  on  the  first 
word. 

"Nobody  kncwi    Nobody  saw!" 

There  was  a  similar  emphasis  on  the  penultimate  word 
in  my  response. 

493 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

"Did  you  ask  them?" 

She  flashed  back  at  me:  "1  did— almott.  At  tiroes  like 
that— if  it's  so— some  one  generally  knows  it  from— from 
the  person  who's  expecting  to  be  biimming  over  with 
jus  secret."  She  laughed  again,  lightly,  nervously.  "But 
m  this  instance  nobody  did." 
"You  asked  them?" 

"Practically.    I  forgot  everything  I  used  to  consider 
pnde  and — and  I  sounded  them." 
"You  sounded  whom?" 

"Oh,  the  people  who  knew  you  best— and  who  knew 
me— Annette,  Esther  Coningsby,  Ralph— any  one  to 
whom  I  thought  you  might  have  betrayed  yourself  by  a 
word.  But  it  was  just  as  with  Evelyn  and  Lady  Ride- 
wer.  You  had  practically  not  mentioned  my  name. 
Hilda  Grace  told  me  she  tried  to  sound  you— that  Sun- 
day at  Rosyth." 
"Well?" 
"I'm  only  quoting  her,  mind  you.    She  said  she  didn't 

K""— tjiere  was  a  repetition  of  that  nervous  laugh 

"she  said  she  didn't  get— any  satisfaction.     And  so—" 

I  tried  to  take  a  reasonable  tone.  "But  how  could  I 
tell  you  or  anybody  else  before  I'd  confessed  to  you  who 
I  was  and  where  you'd  first  seen  me?" 

"Exactly.    I  quite  understand  that— now  that  you've 
said  what  you've  said  to-night.   It's  where  the  past  makes 
us  pay — " 
"For  what  I  used  to  be." 

"Oh,  you're  not  the  only  one,"  she  declared,  in  a 
curious,  offhand  tone.  "It's  for  what  I  used  to  be. 
too." 

I  found  it  difficult  to  follow  her.    "What  you  used  to 
be?    I  don't  understand  you." 
*94 


THE   CITY  OF  COMRADES 

"You  know  about  me-4K)w  I've  been  engaged  to  one 
man  after  another— and  broken  the  engagements." 
Because  you  were  trying  to  find  the  right  one." 
It  wasn't  only  that.    I  thought  of  myself;   I  didn't 
think  of  them.    I  let  them  offer  me  everything  they  had 
to  give-and  pretended  to  accept  it-just  to  experiment 
-to  play  with— and  now— now  I'm— I'm  caughtP' 
Caught — in  what  way?" 

She  tossed  her  hands  outward  in  a  little,  exasperated 
gesture.  "^ 

"  I  can't  do  the  same  thing  again.    It  wouldn't  be  right, 
it  wouldn  t  be  sane." 

"The  same  thing?  Do  tell  me  what  you  mean." 
Its-^ts  one  of  the  same  men.  I'm-I'm  caught. 
Its  what  motherland  Elsie  G,ninesby-and  other  peo- 
ple who  could  talk  to  me  plainly-told  me  would  happen 
»ome  day.  I  m-I'm  punished.  And  I  can't  do  the 
same  thmg  the  second  time." 

T  J]  ^^  "^i"  *?  ''"P**  ^''°"'  **"=  yawning  hell  into  which 
I  felt  myself  gomg  down  that  I  said,  stupidly,  "Why  can't 

"Because  I  can't.  It's  what  I  said  just  now.  It 
wouldn  t  be  sane.  I've  made  a  kind  of  history  for  my- 
»elf.  If  I  were  to  do  the  same  thing  again  it  wouldn't 
merely  seem  cruel,  it  would  seem  crazy." 

"But  if  you  don't  care  for  him?" 

"I  do— in  a  way.  He's  been  so  good  and  kind  and 
patient  and  everything!  And  even  if  I  didn't  care  for 
him  at  all  it  would  be  just  the  same— after  what  I've  let 
nim  think— the  second  time." 

I  could  see  her  reasoning,  if  reasoning  it  was,  though  it 
was  not  the  uppermost  thought  in  my  mind.    As  a 
matter  of  fact,  I  was  repeating  her  statement  as  to  "t«e 
»9S 


^1 

-    -i 

■  1 

THE  CITY  OF  COMRALES 

of  the  same  men."  Which  one  of  them  was  it?  There 
had  been  three — the  one  she  didn't  trust — the  one  she 
couldn't  have  lived  with— and  the  one  who  was  only 
very  nice.  It  would  make  such  a  difference  which  one 
it  proved  to  be  that  I  was  afraid  to  ask  her. 

I  burst  out,  desperately:  "Oh,  but  why  did  you— let 
him  think  it — the  second  time?" 

"I  don't  know.  It  happened  by  degrees — by  writing 
— in  letters — and  I  didn't  see  how  far  I  was  going.  It 
was  a  kind  of  reaction." 

"Reaction  from  what?" 

She  looked  at  me  wildly.  "From  you,  I  think.  As  far 
as  I  remember  it  became  definite  at  Taplow." 

"When  you  were  actually  seeing  me  every  day?" 

"That  was  the  reason.  It  was  seeing  you  so  cheerful 
and  full  of  jokes — and  not  missing — not  missing  any  one 
— nor  ever  mentioning  them — not  to  a  soul.  It  just  con- 
vinced me  of  what  I'd  been  sure  of  before — ever  since  the 
time  at  Atlantic  City — that  you  didn't — ^that  you  never 
had  . . .  And  so  when  he  suggested  it  in  one  of  his  letters — 
I  don't  know  what  made  mel — but  I  didn't  say  it  was 
impossible." 

"What  did  you  say?" 

"I  said,  who  knows?— or  something  like  that.  And 
then  he  cabled — but  I  didn't  cable  back — I  only  wrote — 
trying  to  say  no — but  not  saying  it  decidedly  enough.  .  .  . 
And  so  it's  gone  on — he  writing  and  cabling  both — and 
I  only  writing,  but  letting  him  think— just  little  by  little 
— and  not  seeing  how  far  I  was  being  swept  along." 

I  wanted  to  be  clear  as  to  the  facts. 

"Then  do  I  understand  that  you're  engaged  to  him?" 

"I  told  him  I  wouldn't  be  engaged  again — that  engage- 
ments for  me  had  come  to  be  grotesque.     I  said  that  if 
296 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 
we^did  it  we'd-we'd  just  go  somewhere  and  be  mar- 
''If  you  did  it?    Then  it's  possible"] 

exn«?  •.  •  'r  Y\«'^f  ««6  ■*•  I've  allowed  him  to 
«pect  .t-just  httle  by  httle,  you  understand-and  not 
seemg  how  far  I  was  letting  myself  in.  .  . .  And  now  he's 
told  some  people  who  used  tc  know  about  it  when  I  was 
engaged  to  him  befor^and  that  binds  me  because  " 
^11  get  about-so  that  if  I  were  to  break  it  off  with  him 
nghdy."      *""'  •*  ■"=  "  '='"'?W»g-«ock-and  qJt™ 

"Oh,  Regina,  how  could  you?" 

"I  tJn        ^f/'^i  ^''  R^ei"'-'  ''he  answered,  simply: 

I  Ir  T  ,  °"  '  } ir  ^f  I  ^°  '^""^  "  was  becauL 
I  was  so  lonely-and  I'm  over  twenty-six-and  feel  older 
stiU-and  nobody  seemed  to  care  about  me  but  him- 
and  I  couldn  t  bear  the  idea  of  going  on  and  never  marrv. 
mg  any  one  at  all-which  is  what  Elsie  Coninpsby  said 
would  happen  to  me-and  what  I'd  been  half  wishing  for 

^^"T"",^  5^"  ''^'"^  ='f"''^  °f-  •  •  •  And  you-"    ^ 
res?    What  about  me?" 

•2^Vf  ".  "i^v?^  '*  '^"P'"'^'  *•>«  Miss  Farley-" 
Miss  Farley!    Oh,  good  God!" 

3^"'^^°''  ^'"^  I  ^''°^f    She  was  very  pretty." 
«r  J     ^  ^^  whether  she  was  pretty  or  not?" 
^^^  And  you  were  always  joking  with  her  and  thanking 

**0f  course  I  thanked  her.    What  else  could  I  do  ?" 
You  needn't  have  kissed  her  hand.    I  caught  voi> 

domg  that  one  day  when  I  was  tidying  up  in  your  room." 
Did  you?    Veryhkely.     When  a  man  is  as  helples. 

as  X  was  his  gratitude  often  becomes  maudlin." 


20 


297 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

"I  don't  know  that  you  need  call  it  that.  He  simply 
falls  in  love  with  the  pretty  nurse  who  takes  care  of  him. 
It  was  happening  all  the  time  in  the  hospitals.  But  for 
me — right  there  in  your  room — ^and  shut  out  from  every- 
thing—" 

"But  that  wasn't  my  fault.  If  I'd  known  you  were 
there—" 

"It  was  your  fault  at  Atlantic  City — and  afterward— 
when  I'd  let  you  see — far  more  than  a  girl  should  ever 
let  any  man  see." 

"But  you  know  how  impossible  it  was  for  me  then — 
till  I'd  told  you  who  I  was." 

"I  know  it  now.  I  didn't  know  it  before  half  an  hour 
ago.  And  the  time  when  you  told  me  that — that  thing — 
at  Rosyth — I  had  no  idea  whether  or  not  you  meant  .  .  . 
And  when  you  blame  me  for  not  coming  down-stairs 
quicker  than  I  did — " 

"1  haven't  blamed  you,  Regina." 

"You  can't  imagine  what  it  was  to  be  all  at  sea  not 
merely  as  to  what  you  felt,  but  actually  as  to  what  you 
were — and  had  been.  When  you  pulled  the  pearls  out 
of  your  pocket — and  said  you  were  ♦hat  man — " 

There  were  two  or  three  minutes  during  which  she 
stood  with  face  averted,  and  I  had  to  give  her  time  to 
regain  her  self-control. 

"You  see,"  she  went  on,  her  rich  mezzo  just  noticeably 
tremulous — "you  see,  I'd  always  thought  about  l.im — a 
girl  naturally  would,  finding  him  in  her  room  like  that — 
but  I'd  thought  of  him  as  .  .  .  And  I'd  been  thinking  of 
you,  too.  I'd  been  thinking  of  you  as  the  very  opposite 
<rf  him.  He  was  so  terrible — so  gaunt — so  stricken — I 
see  just  a  little  of  him  in  you  now,  after  all  you've  suf- 
fered. .  .  .  But  you — I  don't  know  what  it  was  you  had 
398 


THE   CITY  OF  COMRADES 

about  you— your  brother  had  h,  too— I  saw  It  again 
when  I  met  him  at  Evelyn's  in  Montreal,  something  a  little 
more  than  distinguished,  something  faithful  and  good." 

"Those  things  are  often  hang-overs  of  inheritance  that 
have  no  counterpart  in  the  nature." 

"Well,  whatever  it  was  I  saw  it— and  all  that  year  those 
two  types  had  been  before  my  mind.  Then  when  I  was 
told  that  there  were  not  two— that  there  was  only  one — 
it  was  like  asking  me  to  understand  that  the  earth  had 
only  one  pole,  and  that  the  North  and  the  South  Poles 
were  identical."  She  surprised  me  with  the  question, 
"Did  you  ever  read  La  Dame  aux  Camilias!" 

I  said  I  had,  wondering  at  the  connection. 

"Don't  you  remember  how  it  begins  with  the  ex- 
humation of  the  body  of  that  poor  woman  six  months 
after  she  was  buried?" 

I  recalled  the  fact. 

"So  that  all  through  the  rest  of  the  book,  when  Mar- 
guerite Gautier  is  at  the  height  of  her  triumphs,  if  you 
call  them  triumphs,  you  see  her  as  she  was  first  shown 
to  you.  Well—  Oh,  don't  you  understand?  That's  the 
way  I  had  to  see— I  had  to  see  you!" 

I  bung  my  head.  "I  understand  perfectly,  Regina— 
now." 

"There's  so  much  we're  only  beginning  to  understand 
now,  both  on  your  side  and  on  mine." 

"When  it's  almost  too  late— if  it  isn't  quite." 

Her  manner,  her  voice,  both  of  which  had  been  a  little 
piteous,  took  on  a  sudden  energy. 

"Oh,  as  to  that,  I've  been  thinking  it  over— I've  had 
to  think  over  so  much— and  I  don't  believe  the  word 
applies." 

"Doesn't  apply?"  I  asked,  in  astonishment. 


299 


"Why 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

not--when  it's  at  late  a*  it  is?    It*!  just  as  if  Fate  had 
been  making  us  a  plaything." 

"I  don't  believe  that.  Life  can't  be  the  sport  of  dis- 
organized  chance.  If  Romeo  takes  poison  ten  minutes 
before  Juliet  wakes  it's  because  the  years  behind  them 
led  up  to  the  mistake." 

"You  mean  that  we  reap  only  what  we  sow?" 
"i^d  that  life  is  as  much  a  matter  of  development  in 
a  logical  sequence  as  the  growth  of  certain  plants  from 
certain  seeds.  It  isn't— it  can't  be— a  mere  frenzy  of 
haphazards.  Things  happen  to  us  in  a  certain  way  be- 
cause  what  we've  done  leaves  tKem  no  other  way." 

"And  was  there  no  other  way  in  which  this  could  hap- 
pen  to  you  and  me?" 

"Thinkl  Isn't  it  the  very  outcome  that  might  have 
been  expected  from  what  we've  been  in  the  pastr 
I  stared  at  her  without  comprehension. 
"Because  of  your  past  life,"  she  went  on,  "there  was 
something  you  couldn't  tell  me;  and  because  I  didn't 
know  It  I've  taken  a  step  which  my  past  life  doesn't  al- 
low me  to  retrace.    Could  anything  be  neater?" 

"And  yet  you're  fond  of  saying  that  the  way  things 
happen  is  the  best  way." 

"It's  the  best  way  if  it's  the  only  way,  isn't  it?  I 
should  go  mad  if  I  thought  that  my  life  hung  on  nothing 
but  caprice— whether  of  luck  or  fate  or  anything  you  call 
God.  I  can  stand  my  deserts,  however  hard,  if  I  know 
they're  my  deserts." 
"You  can  stand  this?" 

"This  is  not  a  question  of  standing;  it's  one  of  working 

out.    Life  isn't  static;  it's  dynamic— those  are  the  right 

words,  aren't  they?    It's  always  unfolding.    One  thing 

leads  to  the  next  thing;   and  then  there  must  be  times 

300 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

wh«i  a  lot  of  things  that  teemed  leparate  are  gathered 
up  in  one  immenw  result.  Don't  you  think  it  must  be 
that  wayr' 

I  said,  stupidly,  that  I  didn't  know. 
"Of  course  you  don't  know  if  you  don't  think;  but  try 
to  thmkK'  ^ 

"What  good  wiU  thinking  do  when  we  see  how  things 
arer  * 

.   "^*  *"  *°''  "*  ^*°^  to  "»ke  the  best  of  them,  won't 

"Is  there  any  best  to  be  made  of  your  marrying  any- 
body else  than  me?  The  way  things  happen  isn't  nece». 
sanly  the  best  way." 

After  her  hesitating  syncopated  sentences  in  dealing 
with  what  was  more  directly  personal  to  her  life  and  mine 
she  talked  now  not  so  much  calmly  as  surely,  as  of  subject! 
she  had  long  thought  out. 

"I  don't  say  the  best  way  absolutely;  but  the  best  in 
view  of  what  we've  made  for  ourselves.  For  ourselves  you 
and  I  have  made  things  hard.  There's  no  question  about 
that.  But  isn't  it  for  both  of  us  now  to  Uve  this  minute 
so  that  the  next  won't  be  any  harder?" 

Th«e  was  no  argument  in  this;  there  was  only  appeal. 
What,    I  asked,  "do  you  mean  by  that?" 

"  I  suppose  I  mean  that  the  best  way  to  live  this  minute 
IS  to  accept  what  it  contains— till  it  develops  into  some- 
thing else— as  it  wiU.  This  isn't  final.  It's  only  a  step 
on  the  way  to—" 

"It's  a  step  on  the  way  to  your  marrying  a  man  you're 
not  in  love  with,  and  my  not  marrying  at  all." 

"And  as  the  world  is  at  present,  aren't  there  worse 
tragedies  than  that?" 

Irony  of  vrfiich  she  must  have  been  unaware  pricked 
301 


It 


i 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

■qr  dnanw  of  cdibata  oooiecratioa  to  a  cauM  a«  a  ^ 
pncka  a  bubble. 

"So  that  if  I  nand  itill  and  let  you  go  on—" 

She  threw  me  a  quick  glance.  "And  aren't  you  going 
to?" 

The  answer  to  that  question  was  what  in  the  back  of 
my  mind  I  had  been  trying  to  work  out. 

"Wouldn't  it  depend,"  I  said,  picking  the  right  words, 
"on  which  of  the  three  it  is  ?  There's  one  I  couldn't  inters 
fere  with — not  without  disregarding  gratitude  and  honor." 

"Do  you  want  me  to  tell  you  which?' 

But  I  didn't — not  then.  Too  much  hung  on  what  the 
knowledge  would  bring  me.  There  were  decisions  to 
which  I  couldn't  force  mjrself  at  once.  In  saying  this  I 
added,  "But  though  I  can't  interfere  with  him  without 
disregarding  gratitude  and  honor,  I  don't  say  that  I 
sha'n't  disregard  them." 

In  the  clear  starlight  her  eyes  had  a  veiled  metallic 
brightness. 

"Nor 

"And  if  I  don't,"  I  persisted,  "what  shaU  you  do?" 

"What  would  you  expect  me  to  do?" 

"I  should  expect  you  to  back  me  up." 

"So  that  we  should  both  be  disregarding  gratitude  and 
honor?" 

"We've  a  right  to  our  happiness." 

"That's  a  very  old  argument,  isn't  itP* 

"It's  not  the  less  true  for  being  old." 

"Oh  no;  if  it's  true  it's  true — anyhow." 

"And  it  is  true.    Don't  you  know  it  is?" 

She  surprised  me  by  saying,  as  if  quite  casually,  "I 
don't  suppose  that  in  the  end  it's  the  truth  or  the  un- 
truth of  the  argument  that  would  weigh  with  me." 
302 


I.J  ii  <— 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

My  heart  gave  a  thump. 

"Then  what  would  weigh  with  you?" 

She  wa«  standing  with  her  back  to  the  rail,  the 
great  white  star  behind  her.  As  if  to  emphasize  the 
minute  of  suspense  the  engines  gradually  stopped,  while 
the  ship  rocked  gently  on  the  tide.  The  lights  on  shore 
were  more  complex  now,  lights  above  lights,  lights  back 
of  lights,  with  the  profusion  of  seaboard  towns  even  in 
November.  The  murmur  of  voices  and  the  click  of  heelr 
grew  expectant  as  well  as  joyous. 

When  she  spoke  at  last  it  was  with  breast  heaving  and 
eyes  downcast.  Her  words  came  out  staccatowise,  as 
if  each  made  its  separate  effort  to  keep  itself  back. 

"What  would  weigh  with  me?    I — I  don't  know." 

"Does  that  mean,"  I  demanded,  sharply,  "that  you 
might  back  me  up?" 

I  could  barely  catch  her  words. 

"It  means  first  of  all  that — that  I'm  awfully  weak." 

"It  isn't  weak,  Regina,  to — to  love." 

"It's  weak  for  a  soldier  to  make  love  an  excuse  for  not 
fghting." 

"But  you're  not  a  soldier." 

"Oh  yes,  I  am;  and  so  are  you.  We're  all  soldiers 
now — every  one  in  the  world.  We  keep  telling  ourselves 
— we  keep  telling  one  another — that  we're  fighting  for 
right.  It's  our  great  justification.  But  what's  the  use 
of  fighting  for  public  right  if  we  go  and  do  wrong  pri- 
vately?" 

"  But  it  isn't  right  for  you  to  throw  yourself  away  on 
a  man  you  don't  care  for." 

"It's  right  for  me  to  stand  by  my  word — what  is  prac- 
tically my  word — till  something  relieves  me  from  the 
necessity." 

30J 


'if  ' 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

I' And  do  you  think  anything  ever  wilir 

"That'i  not  what  I  have  to  consider.    If  I  do  what 

I  know  I  ought  to  do  I've  only  to  wait— and  let  the  next 

thing  come." 

"And  what  you  know  you  ought  to  d»— ate  you  going 
to  do  it?" 

She  looked  up  at  me  pleadingly,  quiveringly,  with 
daiped  handi. 

"I  don't  want  to  do-^o  do  anything  elie.  C*,  Frank, 
I  hope  you  won't  make  me!" 

It  wa»  not  this  unexpected  collapse  that  made  me 
tremble;  it  was  not  this  confession;  it  was  the  knowledge 
that  I  had  her  in  my  power.  She  had  seemed  so  far  above 
me-ever  since  I  knew  her;  she  had  seemed  so  far  be- 
yond me,  so  strong,  so  aloof,  so  ice  pure,  so  inflexibly 
and  inaccessibly  right  I  And  now  she  was  ready  to  come 
to  me  If  I  insisted  on  taking  her. 

But  the  hungry  beast  in  me  waa  not  yet  satisfied  with 
her  avowals. 

"Could  I,  Regina— could  I— make  you?" 

I  once  saw  in  the  eyes  of  a  spaniel  that  knew  it  was 
going  to  be  shot  the  beseeching,  submissive,  helpless  look 
I  saw  here. 

"You  know  what  I've  been  doing,  Frank— the  last  two 
years— just  to  be  where  I— where  I  could— hear  about 
you— occasionally— and  see  you  perhaps— when  you 
couldn't  see  me." 

I  bent  down  toward  her,  close,  closer,  till  I  almost  en- 
veloped her. 

"Yes,  I  know  that— now— and— and  I'm— I'm  going 
to  make  you." 

She  didn't  answer,  but  she  didn't  withdraw.     Perhaps 
ahe  crept  nearer  me.    Certainly  she  shivered. 
30* 


""    THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

Tile  look  in  her  eyet  mu  ttill  helplett,  submiitiv*^  b^ 
•eeching;  but  becauw  it  grew  mortally  frightened  af  well 
I  repeated  what  I  had  (aid  at  lofitly  but  a*  firmly  at  I 
could  make  the  wordi: 

"I'm — I'm  going  to  make  you." 

There  was  nothing  but  the  strip  of  black  veiling  between 
her  lips  and  mine  when  a  sudden  flash  that  might  have 
come  out  of  heaven  threw  me  back  with  a  start. 

It  was  there  above  ut — the  great  beacon — landlike — 
homelike — the  New  World — the  new  work — the  new 
problems  to  be  solved — the  new  duties  toward  mankind 
to  be  hammered  home — while  thankful  voices  were  mur- 
muring round  us: 

"Sandy  HookP' 


I 


•i 

n 


I 


CHAPTER  XXir 


I  1^^^?  y*^  *''*  "»"H»ion  exeraied  by  orKanised 
.F'.""  ,V°"1''  "  •*"""«  """«•  "»'•  ^th  «n  even  di». 
tnbution  hke  that  of  the  weight  of  the  atmosphere  on 
the  body,  paralyzing  my  will  and  making  it  impotent. 
Wo  more  than  I  could  throw  off  the  atmosphere  could  I 
be  free  from  this  force  for  a  second. 

It  b^an  with  my  arrival  on  the  dock,  where  Sterling 
Barry  had  come  to  meet  hi.  daughter.  I  had  seen  him 
often  enough  before,  though  I  had  never  kno-.i,  '.;  „ 
otherwise  than  in  the  way  called  touch-and-go.  A  ruddy, 
portly,  handsome  fellow  of  sixty-odd,  with  eyes  that  had 
pasMd  on  their  torch  to  his  daughter's,  he  must  in  early 
life  have  been  retiring  and  diffident,  for  his  general  iL 
proach  now  had  that  forced  jovial  note  that  verges  on 
the  boisterous. 

"Hellol  Hellor  he  cried,  as  he  lilted  up  to  where  I 
ttood  with  Lovey  in  the  Custom  House  Section  M. 
Alive  and  kicking,  what?  Couldn't  kill  you.  Tried, 
didnt  they?  he  went  on.  looking  me  over.  "Not  but 
what  It  might  have  been  worse,  of  course.  Billy  Town- 
send  s  son  'U  never  come  back  at  all,  poor  chap.  Fine 
young  fellow,  with  a  bee  in  his  bonnet  about  aviation. 
Would  go-and  now  you  seel  Well,  we've  got  you  back 
Md  we  re  gomg  to  keep  you.    What  do  you  know  about 

306 


THE   CITY   OF   COMRADES 

I  replied  that  sw  tUnp  wen  I  wm  afraid  I  had  no  choice 
but  to  itay. 

"And  if  you  want  a  job  come  to  me.  Some  big  thingi 
doing.  Country  never  to  pnxperout.  Lou  of  business 
for  every  one— even  for  poor  old  nuts  like  us.  Well,  so 
long  I  Come  and  see  us.  Mrs.  Barry  will  want  to  hear 
you  talk.  Awfully  keen  on  the  war,  she  is,  and  that  tort 
of  thing.  Bit  down  in  the  mouth  now  over  this  Rumania 
business.    Sad  slump  that,  very." 

I  taid  that  it  or'y  left  the  more  for  ui  to  do. 

"Got  your  handt  full,  what?  They  do  teem  to  put  it 
over  on  you,  don't  theyf  Ah,  well,  we  won't  see  you 
licked.  We'll  keep  out  of  the  war  as  war;  but  you've 
got  our  sympathy.  Watchful  waiting— that's  the  new 
ticket,  you  know.    Can  do  a  lot  with  that." 

With  his  light,  dancing  step  he  was  waltzing  away  again 
when  he  suddenly  returned. 

"Mrs.  Barry  'II  have  something  to  tell  you,"  he  siiid, 
with  a  gleam  in  his  eye  curiously  like  that  in  Kegina's. 
"Perhaps  you  know  it  already.  Regina  may  have  given 
you  the  tip,  whr.t?  People  get  confidential  on  board 
ship.  Nothing  else  to  do.  No  fuss  and  feathers  about 
it.  They  don't  want  that.  War-time  spirit,  you  know. 
Just  telling  a  few  of  our  friends.  Don't  mind  saying  that 
Mrs.  Barry  and  I  are  mighty  delighted.  Been  like  our 
own  son  for  years.  Sorry  when  it  came  to  nothing  last 
time;  but  look  at  'em  nowl"  He  pointed  to  Section  B, 
where  Cantyre  was  bending  over  Regina  as  I  had  bent 
over  her  last  night.  "Can  see  from  here  what  it  means. 
Get  your  congratulations  by  and  by." 

Of  all  this  the  point  is  that  I  couldn't  say  a  word.  I 
couldn't  tell  him  there  on  the  dock  that  I  didn't  mean  to 
let  it  go  any  farther,  nor  did  he  suspect  for  a  second  that 
307 


pif  m 


m 


R 


THE   CITY   OF   COMRADES 

felt   awkward   and   cowardly  at  remaining  dumb,   but 
neither  t.me  nor  place  admitted  of  a  protest 
io.  too,  when  a  few  minutes  later  Cantyre  came  over 

rCeTpSrir-  ^^ '^^  -'^ -'--«=  °^<>^'  ^^ 

"Didn't  expect  to  see  you  so  badly  mauled,"  was  his 
sorrowful  comment  after  the  first  demonstra  ionT  "| 
knew  you  were  wounded,  of  course,  and  that  you  had 
been  bhnd  Regina  wrote  me  that  f...„  Taplow!  But 
I  didn't  look  for  your  being  so— " 

off  h°^s;m;:tt:"'''' '  '""''"'^'  •"  ^"^  ^°"  *°  ^•"•' 

Having  asked  me  a  few  professional  questions  in  refer- 

ence  to  the  ways  m  which  I  had  been  wounded,  he  'aid- 

Well,  now  that  we  ve  got  hold  of  you  again  we  mean  to 

feed  you  up  and  take  care  of  you.     You're  going  to  ^ 

my  patient,  Frank.    For  the  present,  at  an/ rate,  we^ 

t^  W  a"d  ;  ""''  °"  '""^^  '""'  '  ^h' II  b;  Ible 
to  keep  a  daily  eye  on  you.  Lovey  here  has  vour 
apartment  as  clean  as  an  operating -';oom.  See^ou 
there  later.  Just  now  I've  got  to  go  back  t„  Z 
Regina.  And  by  the  way" -'his  habku^Jly  mou™f^° 
repression  brightened  as  a  lowering  day  lights  up  wht 
the  sun  bursts  through  the  masses  of  drifting  do^r 
by  the  way,  I  shall  have  something  to  tell  you  by  and 
by.  The  most  wonderful  thing  has  happened,  Frank- 
somethmgyou  and  I  used  to  talk  about  before 'you'tnt 

It  downward  and  pulling  it  hard,  which  betrayed  all  .ortf 

common,  every-day  happiness.    His  whole  face  asked  me 
308 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

to  rejoice  with  him,  and,  t  \ough  I  ..mJln't  do  that,  I 
couldn't  do  the  other  thing. 

It  was  on  my  lips  to  say,  'Yku  iii't  have  her  because 
I  m  going  to  take  her  away  from  you."  But  the  words 
died  before  they  were  formed.  The  very  thought  died  in 
my  mmd.  Whatever  I  did,  I  shouldn't  be  able  to  do  it 
that  way;   and  so  I  let  him  go. 

"Do  you  know  what  he  meant.  Slim— when  he  said 
them  things — the  doctor?" 

This  was  Lovey's  question  as  he  sat  beside  me  in  the 
taxicab  and  we  drove  up-town. 

As  I  made  no  answer,  he  mumbled,  mysteriously:  "I 
do.  I  'aven't  valeted  'im  for  nothink." 
I  still  made  no  answer,  and  the  mumble  ceased. 
As  yet  I  had  noticed  him  only  as  the  returned  traveler 
notices  the  faithful  old  dog  that  greets  him  by  lifting  his 
eyes  adoringly  and  wagging  his  tail.  I  saw  now  that  the 
mtervenmg  two  and  a  half  years  had  aged  him.  He  had 
grown  white  and  waxy;  his  thin  gray  hair  was  thinner. 
A  trembling,  like  that  of  a  delicately  poised  leaf  on  a  day 
when  there  is  little  wind,  shook  his  hands,  and  the  left 
comer  of  his  lower  lip  had  the  pathetic  quiver  of  a  child's 
when  it  is  about  to  sag  in  a  great  weeping. 

As  I  had  paid  him  so  little  attention  on  the  dock,  I 
picked  up  the  hand  resting  on  his  knee  and  pressed  it. 

He  responded  with  a  long,  harsh  breath  which,  starting 
as  a  sigh  of  comfort,  became  something  inarticulately 
emotional. 
"Oh,  Slim  I    I've  got  ye  back,  'aven't  I?" 
"Seems  like  it,  Lovey."    I  laughed  without  feeling 
mirthful.  * 

"Ye  look  awful,  don't  ye?" 
"I  suppose  I  do." 

309 


TH£  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

"But  it  don't  make  no  difference  to  me,  it  don't.    I'd 
rather  'ave  ye  all  chawed  up  like  this  than  not  'ave  ve 
at  all." 
"Thank  you,  Lovey." 

"Them  wars  is  awful  things.  Why  don't  they  stop 
'em?"  He  continued,  without  waiting  for  an  explana- 
tion: "It's  all  along  o'  them  blamed  Germans.  The 
cheek  o'  them—to  go  and  fight  Englishmen!  There  was 
a  German  in  the  'at-shop  in  the  Edgeware  Road  used  to 
'ang  round  me  somethin'  fierce;  and  now  I  believe  he 
wasn't  nothink  but  a-spyin'  on  me.  Don't  you  think  he 
was.  Slim?" 
"I  think  very  likely." 

"Makes  my  blood  run  cold,  it  does,  the  times  I've  took 
'im  into  a  little  tea-shop  in  Great  Hatfield  Street— and 
me  a-treatin'  on  'im,  like.  If  I  'adn't  'ad  luck  I  might 
be  lookin'  like  you  by  this  time.  Ain't  it  awful  to  be  one- 
eyed,  sonny?" 
"Oh,  I'm  getting  used  to  it." 

"Used  to  it  till  you  looks  in  the  glass,  I  expect.  Get 
a  fright  when  ye  do  that,  don't  you?  But  it's  all  right. 
Slim.  It  wouldn't  matter  to  me  if  you  was  a  worse  looker 
than  /are.  I  wouldn't  turn  ye  down,  neither,  not  if  it 
was  for  all  the  doctors  in  the  world.  Not  but  what  he's 
been  very  attentive  to  me  while  you  was  away.  I  don't 
mike  no  complaint  about  that.  Bit  finicky  about  socks 
and  'andkerchiefs  always  the  same  color — and  ye  couldn't 
see  'is  socks  most  o'  the  time— only  when  he  pulled  up 
his  trouser  leg  apurpose— but  a  good  spender  and  not 
TJOkm'  'is  nose  into  my  affairs.  I'll  say  all  that  for  'im; 
but  if  he  was  to  ask  my  'and  in  marriage,  like,  and  I  could 
get  you.  Slim — all  bunged  up  as  y'are  now  and  every- 
thing!— well,  I  know  what  I'd  say." 
310 


THE  CITY  OF   COMRADES 

Too  miserable  to  reje«  this  bit  of  sympathy,  I  said, 
merely,  "Unfortunately,  Lovey,  every  one  may  not  be 
of  your  opinion." 

"I  d'n'  know  about  that,"  he  protested.  "Seems  to 
me  everybody  would  be  if  you  could  make  'em  under- 
stand, like." 

There  was  nothing  oflFensive  in  this,  coming  a^  it  did 
from  a  deep  affection,  but,  as  it  had  gone  far  enough,  I 
turned  my  attention  to  the  streets. 

There  was  a  quality  in  them  not  to  be  apprehended  by 
the  sense  of  sight.  It  defied  at  first  my  limited  powers 
of  analysis.  Something  to  which  I  was  accustomed  was 
not  there;  and  something  was  there  to  which  I  was  not 
accustomed. 

That  to  which  I  was  not  accustomed  struck  me  soon 
as  shimmering,  shining,  radiant.  That  it  was  not  an 
outward  radiance  goes  without  saying.  New  York  on 
that  November  day  was  as  dreary  and  bleak  a  port  as 
one  could  easily  land  at.  A  leaden  sky  cloaked  the  streets 
in  a  leaden,  lifeless  atmosphere.  The  tops  of  steeples  and 
the  roofs  of  the  tall  buildings  were  wreathed  in  a  leaden 
mist.  Patches  of  befouled  snow  on  the  ground,  with  the 
drifts  of  paper,  rags,  and  refuse  to  which  the  New  York 
eye  is  so  inured  that  it  doesn't  see  them,  lent  to  the  side- 
streets  through  which  we  clattered  an  air  of  being  so  hope- 
lessly sunk  in  dirt  that  it  is  no  use  trying  to  be  any  other 
way.  Drays  rumbled,  motor-trucks  honked,  ferry-boats 
shrieked,  tram-cars  clanked,  trains  overhead  crashed  with 
a  noise  like  that  of  the  shell  that  had  struck  the  Assiniboia, 
while  our  taxicab  creaked  and  squeaked  and  spluttered 
like  an  old  man  putting  on  a  speed  he  has  long  outlived. 
On  the  pavements  a  strange,  strange  motley  of  men  and 
women— Hebrew,  Slavic,  Mongolian,  negro,  negroid — 
■?" 


'       !l.  1  ■,■■ 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

carried  on  trades  as  outlandish  as  themselves.  Here  and 
there  an  outlandish  child  shivered  its  way  to  an  out- 
landish school.  Only  now  and  then  one  saw  a  Caucasian 
face,  either  clean,  alert,  superior,  or  brutalized  and  re» 
pulsive  beyond  anything  to  be  seen  among  the  yearning, 
industrious  aliens. 

And  yet  to  me  all  was  lit  by  an  inner  light  of  which  I 
couldn't  at  first  see  the  lamp.  I  caught  the  rays  without 
detecting  the  source  that  emitted  them.  In  and  through 
and  above  this  squalid  New  York,  with  its  tumult,  its 
filth,  its  seeming  indiflPerence  to  the  individual,  there  was 
a  celesrial  property  bom  of  the  kingdom  of  heaven.  It 
shone  in  the  sky;  it  quivered  in  the  air;  it  lay  restfully 
on  the  hoary  graveyards  nestling  at  th^  feet  of  prodigious 
cubes,  like  eld  at  the  base  of  Time.  All  faces  glowed  with 
it;  all  tasks  translated  it;  all  the  clamor  of  feet  and 
wheels  and  whistles  sang  it  like  a  song. 

The  name  of  it  came  to  me  with  a  cry  of  joy  and  a 
pang  of  grief  simultaneousljr.  It  was  peace.  I  was  in  a 
country  that  was  not  at  war. 

I  had  forgotten  the  experience.  I  had  forgotten  the 
sensation  it  produces.  I  had  forgotten  that  there  was 
a  world  in  which  men  and  women  were  free  to  go 
and  come  without  let  or  hindiance.  And  here  were 
people  doing  it.  The  day's  work  claimed  them,  and 
nothing  beyond  the  day's  work.  To  earn  a  living  was 
an  end  in  itself.  The  living  earned,  a  man  could 
enjoy  it.  The  money  he  made  he  could  spend;  the 
house  he  built  he  could  occupy;  the  motor  he  bought 
he  could  ride  in;  the  wife  he  married  he  could  abide 
with;  the  children  he  begot  he  could  bring  up.  He 
could  go  on  in  this  routine  till  he  sickened  and  died 
and  was  buried  in  it.  There  was  no  terrific  overruling 
312 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

motive  to  which  all  other  motives   had  become  sub- 
sidiary,  and  into  which  they  merged. 

In  the  countries  I  had  been  living  in  war  was  the  sky 
overhead  and  the  ground  beneath  the  feet.  One  dreamed 
it  at  night,  and  one  woke  to  it  in  the  morning.  It  made 
everything  its  adjunct,  every  one  its  slave.  Duty, 
wealth,  love,  devotion,  had  no  other  object  on  which  to 
pour  themselves  out.  It  commanded,  absorbed,  monop- 
olized. ^  There  was  no  home  it  didn't  visit,  no  pocket 
It  didn't  rifle,  no  face  it  didn't  haunt,  no  heart  it  didn't 
search  and  sift  and  strengthen  and  wrench  upward— the 
process  was  always  a  hard,  dragging,  compulsive  one- 
till  the  most  wilful  had  become  submissive  and  the  most 
selfish  had  given  all.  Prayer  was  war;  worship  was 
war;  art,  science,  philosophy,  sport  were  war.  Noth- 
ing else  walked  in  the  streets  or  labored  in  the  fields  or 
bought  and  sold  in  the  shops.  It  was  the  next  Universal 
after  God. 

And  here,  after  God,  a  man  was  his  own  Universal. 
With  no  standard  to  which  everything  had  to  be  referred 
he  seemed  unutterably  care-free.  Care-free  was  not  a 
term  I  should  have  used  of  New  York,  of  America,  in  the 
old  days;  but  it  was  now  the  only  one  tnat  applied.  The 
people  I  saw  going  by  on  the  sidewalks  had  nothing  but 
themselves  and  their  families  to  think  of.  Their  only 
struggle  was  the  struggle  for  food  and  shelter.  Safe  peo- 
pie,  happy  people,  dwelling  in  an  Eden  out  of  the  reach 
of  cannon  and  gas  and  bomb! 
"I  came  not  to  bring  peace,  but  a  sword  I" 
Sacrilegiously,  perhaps,  I  was  applying  those  words  to 
myself  as  we  jolted  homeward.  But  I  was  applying  them 
mth  a  query.  I  was  asking  if  it  could  possibly  be  worth 
TOiIe.  All  at  once  my  mission  became  unreal,  fantastic. 
21  ,u 


I 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 


li 


To  begin  with,  it  was  beyond  my  powers.  Among  thcK 
hundreds  of  thousands  of  strangers  I  knew  but  a  handful. 
Even  on  that  handful  I  should  make  no  impression.  I 
could  see  at  a  glance,  from  the  few  words  I  had  exchanged 
with  people  on  the  dock,  that  each  man's  cup  was  full. 
You  couldn't  pour  another  drop  into  it.  I  had  subcon- 
sciously taken  it  for  granted  that  my  friends  would  be, 
as  it  were,  waiting  for  me;  and  already  it  was  evident 
that  in  their  minds  there  would  not  be  a  vacant  spot.  I 
had  not  the  will-power  to  force  myself  in  on  so  much  hurry 
an^j  preoccupation. 

Then  I  wasn't  interested  in  it  any  more.    I  had  preten- 
tiously thought  of  myself  as  dedicated  to  a  cause,  and  now 
the  cause  had  dissolved  into  nothing  on  this  leaden,  over- 
charged air.    It  would  be  ridiculous  to  wean  these  people 
away  from  their  work,  even  if  I  could  play  like  the  Pied 
Piper  and  have  them  follow  me.     I  didn't  want  to  do  it. 
I  wanted  to  marry  the  woman  I  loved,  and  settle  down 
quietly,  industriously,  to  spend  my  days  in  an  office  and 
my  nights  at  home,  like  the  countless  human  ants  that 
were  running  to  and  fro.    My  celibacy  of  the  will  was 
gone.     My  consecration  was  gone.    Where  these  austeri- 
ties had  been  there  was  now  only  that  yearning  of  what- 
ever it  is  that  draws  a  man  toward  a  woman,  and  I  asked 
nothing  but  the  freedom  to  enjoy.    I  was  determined  to 
enjoy.    The  resolve  came  over  me  with  this  first  glimpse 
of  New  York.    It  came  over  me  in  a  tide  of  desire  which 
was  all  the  fiercer  for  its  long  repression.     It  may  have 
been  the  demand  of  the  flesh  for  compensation.    That 
which  had  not  merely  been  denied,  but  brutalized  and  , 
broken,  rose  with  the  appetite  of  a  starving  beast. 

So,  thirdly,  I  was  not  fit  for  any  high  undertaking.    It 
was  not  my  real  self  that  had  made  these  vows;  it  was 
314 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

a  phantasm  self  evoked  by  the  vast  emotions  of  a  strife 
m  which  the  passions  raged  on  a  scale  that  lifted  the 
human  temporarily  out  of  itself.  But  now  that  the  strife 
had  been  left  behind,  the  human  fell  bade  into  the  same 
old  rut. 

In  the  same  old  rut  I  found  myself.  I  had  reverted  to 
what  I  had  been  before  there  was  a  war  at  all.  My  car- 
nal instincts  were  as  strong  as  ever;  as  strong  as  ever  was 
my  longing  for  Regina  Barry  as  my  wife.  It  was  stronger 
than  ever,  smce  I  meant  to  get  her  by  hook  or  by  crook, 
if  I  couldn't  do  it  by  the  methods  which  colloquially  we 
call  straight. 

It  was,  however,  the  difficulties  of  hook  and  crook  that 
oppressed  me.  The  straight  line  was  in  this  case  that  of 
least  resistance.  I  grew  more  convinced  of  it  as  the  day 
advanced. 

There  was  everything  to  make  my  return  to  the  old 
quarters  a  moment  of  depression.  The  quarters  them- 
selves, which  had  seemed  palatial  after  the  Down  and 
Out,  were  modest  to  the  point  of  being  squalid.  As 
Cantyre  had  said,  Lovey  had  kept  them  as  clean  as  an 
oper.--ing-room,  but  cleanliness  couldn't  relieve  their  dingy 
shabbiness  or  make  up  for  the  absence  of  daylight. 

Moreover,  Cantyre's  own  proximity  was  trying  to  me. 
There  was  only  the  elbow  of  a  corridor  between  his  rooms 
and  mme.  He  would  resume  the  old  chumming  habits 
of  running  in  and  out,  while  I  was  sharpening  a  knife  to 
stab  him  in  the  back. 

And  in  the  processes  of  unpacking  Lovey  got  on  my 
nerves.  He  got  on  my  nerves  as  a  sweet,  old,  fussy 
mother  gets  on  those  of  a  wayward  son  during  the  hours 
he  IS  compeUed  to  stay  at  home.  Dogging  me  about 
from  one  room  to  another,  his  affection  was  like  a  draught 
31S 


•I 
I 

I 

is 


^"'1  il 


i  I  if 


<    :i 


i  M 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

of  milk  held  out  to  a  man  whose  l!ps  are  parched  for 
brandy. 

It  was  a  relief,  therefore,  when  the  telephone  rang  and 
Annette  van  Elstine  asked  me  to  come  and  have  tea  with 
her.  I  knew  that  Annette  was  not  craving  to  see  me 
merely  as  her  cousin;  and  as  my  cousin  I  could  have 
waited  patiently  for  the  pleasure  of  seeing  her;  but  with 
her  scent  for  drama  and  her  insatiable  curiosity  she 
would  raise  the  issues  of  which  I  wanted  to  talk  even  if 
I  got  no  good  from  it. 

I  found  her  as  little  changed  as  if  Time  had  not  passed 
nor  War  dropped  his  bomb  on  the  world. 

Annette's  smartness,  as  I  have  already  told  you,  was 
difficult  to  define.  It  was  not  in  looks  or  dress  or  manner 
of  living  or  gifts  of  intellect.  If  I  could  ascribe  it  to  a 
cause  I  should  put  it  down  as  authority  of  position  com- 
bined with  the  possession  of  a  great  many  personal  secrets. 
She  knew  your  intimate  history  for  the  reason  that  she 
asked  you  intimate  questions.  Authority  of  position 
enabled  her  to  do  this — or  at  least  she  acted  as  if  it  did — 
with  the  right  of  a  cross-examiner  to  probe  the  truth  in 
court.  She  could  convey  the  impression  that  her  inter- 
est in  your  affairs  was  an  honor — as  if  a  queen  were  to 
put  her  royal  finger  in  your  family  pie — so  that  quite 
artlessly  you  unlocked  your  heart  to  her.  Other  people's 
unlocked  hearts  were  ber  kingdom,  since,  as  far  as  I  could 
see,  she  had  nothing  in  her  own. 

Also,  as  far  as  I  could  see,  she  wore  the  same  tea-gown 
I  had  always  seen  her  in;  she  sat  in  the  same  chair  in 
front  of  the  same  fire;  she  had  before  her  the  same  tea 
equipage;   she  might  have  been  pouring  the  same  tea. 

The  transition  from  the  necessary  questions  as  to  my 
personal  experiences  and  wounds  to  that  of  the  exact 
316 


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THE   CITY   OF   COMRADES 
relations  between  Mri.  Hartlepool  and  Gen.  Lord  Bir- 
kenhead was  an  easy  one.    Disi.ppointed  that  I  had  spent 
two  years  at  the  front  an  1  had  heard  nothing  of  the 
delicate  situation  between  ti.ese  distinguished  persons, 
of  which  an  amazing  mass  of  contradictory  detail  had 
reached  certain  circles  in  New  York,  she  turned  the  con- 
versation on  what  was  really  the  matter  in  hand. 
"So  you  came  over  on  the  same  boat  as  Regina?" 
Unable  to  deny  this  statement,  I  admitted  its  truth. 
The  dusky  ripples  played  over  Annette's  round  features, 
giving  them  a  somber  vivacity. 
"Did  she  tell  you  anything?" 

"Yes;    a  good  many  things." 

"Anything  special,  I  mean?" 

"Everything  she  said  was  special,  as  far  as  I  can  re- 
member." 

She  tried  another  avenue. 

•j You've  gone  back  to  your  old  quarters,  haven't  you?" 
Yes;   I  kept  them  all  the  time  I  was  away.     Stupid 
I  suppose;   but  when  I  left  New  York  I  didn't  expect  to 
be  gone  for  more  than  a  few  weeks." 

"Stephen  Cantyre  is  in  that  house,  isn't  he?" 

"On  the  same  floor  with  me." 

,'T°"'"  *^*  ^  Sreat  deal  of  liim,  won't  vou?" 

"I  did  when  I  was  there  before." 

"Was  he  on  the  dock  to  meet  Regina?" 

"He  was  on  the  dock,  either  to  meet  her  or  to  meet  me. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  met  us  both." 

"Did  he  say  anything  about  her?" 

I'Yes;  he  said  he  had  to  go  and  speak  to  her." 

"Only  to  speak  to  her?" 

"What  more  could  he  do— right  there  on  the  dock?" 

'Oh,  then  you  do  know?" 
317 


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n\ 


ii 


THE   CITY   OF   COMRADES 

"Know  what?" 

"What  do  you  tuppoief    Can't  you  guesi?" 

"I  didn't  know  you  wanted  me  to  gueis.     I  thought 
you  meant  to  tell  me." 

"  I  can't  tell  you  what  I  don't  know  myself — officially." 

"Do  you  know  it  in  any  other  way?" 

"  I  know  it  by  (igns  and  tokens." 

"One  can  infer  a  lot  from  them." 

"That's  just  what  I've  done.  It  wasn't  till  I  heard 
that  you'd  come  over  in  the  same  boat  with  her — " 

The  rest  of  the  sentence  was  conveyed  by  a  look  which 
invited  me  to  4(0  on 

"You  thought  i  might  be  able  to  corroborate  the  signs 
and  tokens?" 

"Or  contradict  them — if  it's  not  a  rude  thing  to 
say." 

I  wriggled  away  from  the  frontal  attack.  "Why  should 
it  be  rude?" 

"Oh,  well,  I'm  the  last  person  in  the  world  to  go  poking 
into  other  people's  business." 

"Exactly." 

"Only  people  do  like  to  tell  me  things." 

"I  can  quite  understand  that — when  they've  any- 
thing to  tell." 

"Which  is  what  I  thought  you  might  have." 

"How  could  I  have  anything  to  tell  when  I've  just 
spent  two  years  in  trenches  and  hospitals?" 

"You  haven't  been  in  trenches  and  hospitals  during 
the  last  ten  days.  Oh,  don't  say  anything  if  you  don't 
want  to.    I'm  not  in  the  It^ast  curious." 

"Of  course  you're  not.    No  one  would  ever  think  so." 

"I've  only  been — well,  just  a  little  afraid." 

"What  were  you  afraid  of?" 
318 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 


"Of  the  situation.     I 


that  you  took  the  boat 
"No. 


iuppose  it  wasn't  an  accident 
hat  sF 
accident. 


:  was  on?" 


to 


wasn  I 
do  with  it?" 
''Just  that  much— that  you  did  it  on  purpose." 
"So  that  you  were  afraid  on  my  account?" 
"No;  on  hers.    You  see,  she's  been  so  terribly  talked 
about  that  now  that  it's  beginning  again—" 
"Oh,  it's  beginning  again,  is  it?" 
She  said,  mysteriously,  "Stephen  Cantyre  it  rather  a 
goose,  you  know." 
"In  what  way?" 

"In  the  way  of  dropping  hints  when  he'd  much  better 
keep  still.     He's  so  crazy  about  her—" 
"It's  a  pity  for  him  to  be  dropping  hints  if  he  isn't  sure." 
"Oh,  he  must  be  sure  enough!    After  the  way  she 
treated  him  before,  he'd  never  expose  himself  to  the 
same  thing  the  second  time.     It  isn't  that  he's  not  sure. 
It's  just  the  way  he  does  it— confiding  in  every  one,  but 
only  saying  that  he  hopes." 
"If  he  only  hopes,  it  doesn't  bind  any  one  but  himself." 
"It  isn't  a  question  of  binding;   it's  one  of  the  situa- 
tion.   If  she's  let   him   hope— the   second   time— she's 
bound.     If  it  was  only  the  first  time— or  if  she  hadn't 
made  such  an  insane  reputation  for  herself— don't  you 
see? — the  whole  thing  is  in  that." 

"I  should  think  the  whole  thing  was  in  whether  or  not 
she  was  in  love  with  him." 

"Well,  it  isn't.  If  she  was  as  much  in  love  with  some- 
body else  as  Juliet  she  couldn't  throw  over  Stephen 
Cantyre  now.  She'd  have  to  be  put  under  restraint  if 
she  did— shut  up  in  some  sort  of  ward.  The  community 
wouldn't  stand  for  it." 

319 


>* 


1 ' ;. 

1  \  if: 

■ 

If 


THE   CITY   OF   COMRADES 

"It  might  be  a  nine  dayi'  wonder,  of  coune." 

"It  would  be  one  of  thow  nine  dayi'  wonder*  that  latt 
all  your  life.  ShVd  be  done  for."  Shr  went  on  in  another 
key.  "  But,  of  course,  her  father  and  mother  wouldn't 
let  her.  They're  delighted.  He'»  very  well  off— and  a 
good  fellow,  who'll  give  her  everything  ihe  wants." 

"But  what  good  will  that  do  if  she  doesn't  care  for 
himr 

Her  animation  went  into  the  eclipse  that  always  came 
over  her  when  she  touched  the  heart  of  things. 

"What  makes  you  think  she  doesn't — if  it's  not  a  rude 
question  ?" 

"The  fact  that  she  turned  him  down  before." 

She  broke  in  with  that  directness  which  she  never 
hesitated  to  make  use  of  when  the  time  came. 

"You  don't  think  she  cares  anything  about  you?" 

I  considered  two  or  three  ways  of  meeting  this,  the 
one  I  adopted  being  to  put  on  a  rather  inane  smile. 

"What  if  she  did?" 

"She'd  just  have  to  get  over  it,  that's  all.    You,  too!" 

"Why?" 

"I  needn't  tell  you  why.  You  must  see  for  yourself. 
Or,  rather,  I've  told  you  already.  There  are  ways  in 
which  an  engagement  is  more  important  than  a  marriage 
— any  engagement;  and  when  it's  a  second  engagement 
to  the  same  man —  If  she'd  been  married  to  him,  and 
couldn't  get  along,  why,  no  one  would  think  the  worse 
of  her  if  she  got  a  divorce  and  married  some  one  else. 
She  would  have  given  him  a  try;  she  would  have  done 
her  best.  But  just  to  take  him  up  and  put  him  down,  and 
take  him  up  and  put  him  down  again,  without  trying 
him  at  all — my  dear  Frank,  it  isn't  donel" 

"But  suppose  we  did  it?" 
320 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

"In  that  case  it  might  be  the  world  well  Ion  for  love- 
out  the  world  would  be  loit;  and  you  needn't  be  under 
any  miiconception  about  it.  Penonally  I'd  Rand  by 
any  one  through  almost  anything;  I  have  ttood  by 
Regina  in  the  past  when  lots  of  other  women  have  given 
her  the  cold  shoulder  because  of  her—" 

Call  it  anything  you  like.  Most  of  us  have  other 
names  for  it.  All  I  want  to  say  now  is  that  I  wouldn't 
stand  by  her  in  this;  nor  by  you,  either.  If  you  had  come 
to  me  when  you  were  in  your  other  troubles— three  or 
four  years  ago— you'd  have  found  me  just  the  same  as 
if  you'd  been  keeping  straight.  Any  one  can  go  to  the 
bad.  There  isn't  a  family  that  hasn't  some  one  who'i 
done  it.  But  this  would  be  the  kind  of  thing—  Frank, 
old  boy,  I'm  telling  you  right  now,  so  that  you'll  know 
where  you  stand  with  me.  I'd  have  to  be  the  first  to 
cut  you  both." 

To  this  there  were  several  retorts  I  could  have  made, 
any  of  them  quite  crushing  to  Annette;  but  I  was  think- 
ing of  the  practical  difficulties  before  us.  The  role  of 
unscrupulous  coquette  was  the  last  in  which  Regina 
would  care  to  appear;  that  of  cad  was  equally  distasteful 
to  me.  Had  it  been  possible  to  make  one  plunge  and  be 
over  with  it,  it  would  have  been  different;  as  it  was,  the 
preliminaries— the  facing  of  all  the  people  who  would 
have  to  be  faced— the  explaining  all  the  things  that  would 
have  to  be  explained— couldn't  but  be  devilish. 

I  was  just  beginning,  "Why  should  you  assume  that 
we  are  thinking  of  any  such  thing — ?" 

But  before  I  could  finish  the  sentence  the  door  opened 
gently  and  a  maid's  voice  announced,  "Mrs.  Barry." 

Of  all  the  people  in  the  world,  this  lady  was  the  laic 
I  wanted  to  meet  at  that  moment.    Knovring  how  i 
321 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

rmust  have  figured  in  her  eyes  in  the  past,  I  was  planning 
for  the  future  to  figure  in  a  worse  light  still.  I  had 
thrown  her  kindness  back  in  her  face  and  never  given  her 
an  explanation.  She  must  have  known  that  my  seeming 
.  flight  from  Long  Island  after  that  last  Sunday  in  June, 
1914,  had  left  her  daughter  unhappy;  and  the  reason  had 
remained  a  mystery. 

She  gave  me  the  first  glance  as  she  entered,  and  only 
the  second  to  our  hostess.  The  awful  severity  of  those 
who  are  temperamentally  gentle  and  unjudging  was  in 
the  very  coldness  of  her  eye. 

She  was  a  charming,  delicate,  semi-invalid  woman  who 
seemed  to  have  been  spun,  like  the  clothes  she  wore,  out 
of  the  least  durable  materials  in  life.  Regina  had  the 
same  traits,  but  harder,  stronger,  and  more  lasting.  It 
was  difficult  to  think  of  the  latter  as  an  invalid;  while 
you  couldn't  see  the  mother  as  anything  else. 

Prettily  old-fashioned,  she  seemed  not  to  have  changed 
her  style  of  dressing  since  the  eighteen-seventies.  The 
small  bonnet  might  have  dated  from  the  epoch  of  pro- 
fessional beauties  when  Mrs.  Langtry  was  a  girl.  The 
long  fur  peUsse  with  loose  hanging  sleeves  was  of  no 
period  at  all.  I  think  she  wore  a  train.  In  her  own 
house  she  habitually  did,  and  she  seemed  to  have  just 
flung  on  the  pelisse  and  driven  down  the  Avenue  in  her 
motor. 

She  greeted  me  politely,  without  enthusiasm,  but  with 
due  regard  to  the  fact  that  I  was  a  wounded  hero  home 
from  the  wars.  Talking  of  the  invasion  of  Rumania,  she 
showed  herself  much  more  alive  to  America's  international 
duty  than  any  of  the  few  men  I  had  met  since  my  landing. 

"I  wish  we  could  get  my  husband  and  Stephen  to  see 
things  that  way,"  she  continued,  sweetly,  over  her  tea- 
322 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

cup.  "They're  so  pacifist,  both  of  them.  My  husband 
feels  that  we've  nothing  to  do  with  it,  and  Stephen  is 
opposed  to  war  on  any  ground.  You  must  talk  to  him, 
Mr.— or  captain,  isn't  it?  Oh,  major?  You  must  talk 
to  him.  Major  Melbuiy.  He'll  listen  to  you."  She 
turned  to  Annette.  "  You  know,  Annette,  I  just  ran  in  to 
share  our  good  news  with  you.  Regina  and  Stephen— 
they've  made  it  up  again— and  they're  so  happy  I"  An 
oblique  glance  included  me.  She  was  getting  the  satis- 
faction that  women  receive  from  a  certain  kind  of  revenge. 
"Poor  darlingi  You  don't  know  how  hard  she's  tried, 
Annette.  People  haven't  understood  her.  All  she's 
wanted  was  to  be  sure  of  herself— and  now  she  is.  She's 
really  been  in  love  with  Stephen  all  these  years,  only  she 
didn't  know  it.  That  is,  she  knew  it;  and  yet—  But 
I'm  sure  you  see  it.  You're  one  of  the  few  who've  never 
been  unkind  to  her.  She  wanted  me  to  tell  you.  She'll 
be  so  glad  to  have  you  know  it,  too,  Major  Melbury. 
Perhaps  she  told  you  on  the  boat.  I  think  she  said  she 
did.  I  don't  quite  remember.  There's  been  so  much  to 
say  in  the  last  few  hours.  There  always  is  at  such  a 
time,  don't  you  think? ...  No;  they're  not  going  to  an- 
nounce an  engagement.  It  would  only  make  more  talk, 
after  all  the  talk  there's  been.  One  of  these  days  they'll  be 
married— without  saying  anything  about  it.  And,  oh!— 
I  know  you'll  be  interested,  Annette,  though  it  may  bore 
Major  Melbury— Stephen  has  bought  that  very  nice 
house— the  Endshigh  Jarrotts  lived  in  it  for  a  little  while 
^n  Park  Avenue  near  Sixty-sixth  Street.  Ralph  Con- 
ingsby  is  going  to  remodel  it  for  them,  and  I'm  sure  it 
will  be  awfully  attractive.    That's  where  they'll  live." 

It  was  my  opportunity.    I  could  have  shouted  out 
there  and  then  and  made  a  scene. 


i  ;i  ii'; 


I 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

Do  you  think  me  a  coward  for  not  doing  it?  Do  you 
think  me  a  fool? 

All  kinds  of  speeches  were  hot  within  me— and  I  kept 
them  back.  More  correctly,  I  didn't  keep  them  back; 
I  simply  couldn't  utter  them.  I  couldn't  give  pain  to 
this  sweet  lady  sipping  her  tea  so  contentedly;  I  couldn't 
give  pain  to  Annette.  Aimette  was  enjoying  the  situa- 
tion in  which  we  found  ourselves;  the  sweet  lady  had 
got  compensation  for  months,  for  years,  of  wondering  and 
unhappiness  in  those  seemingly  artless  words,  "She's 
really  been  in  love  with  Stephen  all  these  years,  only  she 
didn't  know  it."  I  knew  they  were  spoken  for  my  bene- 
fit. Between  the  lines,  between  the  syllables,  they  said, 
"And  if  you  think  she  was  ever  in  love  with  you  you're 
wrong."  Whether  the  sweet  lady  believed  her  own 
statements  or  not  made  little  difference.  It  would 
gratify  her  all  her  life  to  remember  that  she  had  had  the 
chance  of  making  them. 

So  I  came  away,  following  the  line  of  least  resistance, 
because  I  didn't  see  what  else  I  could  do. 

I  didn't  see  what  else  I  could  do  when  Cantyre  came 
into  my  bedroom  late  that  night. 

I  knew  he  would  be  dining  at  the  Banys',  and  that  he 
would  come  looking  me  up  after  his  return.  To  avoid 
him  I  had  the  choice  between  staying  out  and  going  to 
bed.  My  physical  condition  kept  me  from  staying  out 
very  late,  and  so  I  took  the  other  alternative.  It  made 
no  difference,  however,  since  he  waked  Lovey  by  pound- 
ing on  the  door,  and  insisted  on  coming  in. 

Dropping  into  the  arm-chair  beside  my  bed,  with  no 
light  but  that  which  streamed  in  behind  hun  from  the 
sitting-room,  he  took  me  on  my  weak  side  by  banning 
to  talk  about  the  war. 

3U 


THE  errv  of  comrades 

I  have  Mid  that  my  mission  had  become  unreal  and 
fantattic,  but  that  was  only  in  relation  to  my  personal 
fitness  for  the  task.  That  the  war  was  a  holy  war.  to  be 
fought  to  a  holy  end,  remained  the  alpha  and  omeca  of 
my  conv.ct.ons.  And  to  Cantyre  war  of  any  kind  was 
pk.nly  unholy  war,  pnxluctive  of  unholy  reactions. 
What  I  felt  as  he  talked  may  best  be  expressed  by  Levey's 
words  next  morning  when  he  betrayed  the  fact  that  he 
had  been  hstening. 

"Didn't  it  get  yer  goat.  Slim,  the  way  the  doctor 
went  on  last  night?" 

It  did  get  my  goat,  and  I  restrained  myself  only  because 
I  had  been  warned  in  London  to  be  patient  with  Ameri- 
cans.^^ You  must  treat  them  as  wise  parents  treat  their 
sons,  I  had  been  told.  "Help  them  to  see  for  themselves 
—and  when  they  do  that  you  can  trust  them."  So  the 
best  I  could  do  was  to  help  Cantyre  to  see  for  himself; 
and  to  make  any  headway  in  that  I  had  to  pretend  to  be 
tolerant. 

"No  one  contends  that  war  is  the  ideal  method  for 
•ettlmg  human  difficulties,"  I  admitted;  "but  as  long  as 
hmnan  society  stands  on  certain  planks  in  its  platform 
there  11  be  no  other  way." 
Il^en  isn't  this  the  time  to  take  another  way?" 
No;  because  you've  got  to  change  your  bases  of 
eastence  first.  You  can't  change  your  efl^ects  without 
hrst  changing  your  causes,  any  more  than  you  can  eraft 
an  apple  on  an  oak." 

"But  even  without  removing  the  cause  you  ian  still 
sometimes  nip  the  effect." 

"Which  is  what  in  the  present  instance  we  tried  to 
do,  and  didnt  succeed  in.    All  the  trend  of  education 
aurmg  th.rty  years  has  been  in  the  dire«ion  of  eliminat- 
325 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

ing  war,  while  still  keeping  the  principle*  that  make  for 
war  as  part  of  the  foundation  of  our  life.    We  created  a 
system  of  international  law;  we  set  up  a  Hague  Tribunal; 
many  of  us  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  no  great 
war  could  ever  again  take  place;   but  the  law  by  which 
human  beings  prefer  as  yet  to  live  outwitted  us  and 
brought  war  upon  us  whether  we  would  or  not.    So  long 
as  you  keep  the  causes  you  must  have  the  effects." 
"Then  let  us  do  away  with  the  causes." 
"Yes!    Let  us.    Only,  to  do  that  in  time  for  the  present 
situation  we  should  have  begun  five  hundred  years  ago. 
You  can't  put  out  the  fire  the  ages  have  kindled  as  you'd 
blow  out  a  candle.    When  you've  spent  centuries  in  pre- 
paring your  mine,  and  fixed  a  time  fuse  to  make  it  ex- 
plode, you've  nothing  to  do  but  to  let  it  go  off.    This 
war  wasn't  made  overnight.    The  world  has  been  getting 
ready  for  it  as  long  as  there  have  been  human  beings  to 
look  askance  at  one  another.    Now  we've  got  it — ^with 
all  its  horrors,  but  also  with  all  its  compensations." 
"Compensations  for  the  lives  it  has  ruined?" 
"In  the  lives  it  has  saved — yes.    You'll  never  get  -ts 
meaning  unless  you  see  it  as  a  great  regenerative  process." 
"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  we  can  only  be  regen- 
erated by  fire  and  sword  and  rapine?" 

"Not  at  all  I  We're  regenerated  by  courage  and  honor 
and  sacrifice  and  the  sense  that  every  man  gets — every 
Tommy,  every  poilu,  every  bluejacket — that  he  personally 
is  essential  to  man's  big  fight  in  his  struggle  upward.  It's 
one  of  the  queer  things  of  the  whole  business  that  out  of 
the  greatest  wrong  human  beings  can  inflict  on  one  an- 
other— to  go  to  war  with  them — there  can  come  the  high- 
est benefits  to  every  individual  who  gets  himself  ready  to 
:receive  them.  It  makes  one  believe  in  an  intelligence 
326 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

compelling  the  race  toward  good,  however  much  we  may 
be  determmed  to  go  the  other  way." 
He  tuned  his  voice  to  a  new  key 

now'trire  •:-"  '""''"*'  '"^^^^  ="«'  ■•*-'  "^^  ^^-p. 

nSci^^^^r"''^^"--— ''-^~ 

«!?''' I*  ^  'i'""''^'''*  "'°™i"8-  It's  all-it's  all  come 
nght.    I  used  to  thmk  it  never  would,  sometimes.    And 

X^~^T'  ^f''  "'••^y'-''"'  then  I'd  say  to  myself 
that  God  would  never  have  made  me  feel  as  I  did  unless 
He  meam  somethmg  to  come  of  it.  Religion  keeps  telline 
you  to  trust;  and  I  did  trust^n  and  off."  ^ 

Agam  I  had  an  opportunity;  but  again  such  words  as 
rose  in  me  choked  themselves  back  in  my  threat.  I 
could  have  told  hm,  that  she  was  ready  to  come  to  me 
If  1  Lfted  a  finger.  I  knew  I  should  have  to  tell  him 
sometime,  and  it  occurred  to  me  that  it  might  as  well 

tZT        -7'"  *''"  Z"'^'  *''='*  f""'''  «"«•  "°t  the  in- 

i„  aTv'^  °'      'I "'"'  *^'  !""=""""'  "  """^  *h»  'Mention 
m  any  degree  that  made  it  compulsory. 

fakerSlyti;'  ""^ ""'"'  ^"^  '  "'''  "°^''^'  '^ »-  -- 
"It's  a  wonderful  thing  to  be  happy,  Frank.    I've 

"oTof  uV'""':,'''/" "'Z"  "y  ''f'=-  I'*"  "  pusillanimous 
sort  of  bloke,  and  there's  the  truth.  I  wasn't  happy  at 
home,  or  at  school  or  at  college,  or  in  any  of  the  hos- 
PJtals  where  I  worked;  and  I  never  made  any  friends. 
You  must  know  I've  been  queer  when  I  say  that  women 
have  always  looked  at  me  as  if  I  was  outside  of  their 
Kuge.  Hie/ve  never  made  up  to  me  in  the  way  they 
327 


H  ^'^ 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

do  to  moit  fellows  with  a  bit  of  money  and  not  defonned. 
Regina — there  I  I've  said  her  name — she  was  the  very 
first  who  ever  took  the  trouble  to  be  more  than  just 
decently  civil." 

I  managed  to  stammer  the  words,  "What  did  she  do?" 

"Oh,  nothing  very  much — not  at  first.  She  seemed 
to  think— she  used  to  say  it-rthat  I  was  different  from 
most  men.  That's  what  she  appeared  to  be  on  the  look- 
out for.  All  the  other  chaps  she  knew  were  so  much  alike, 
and  I —  Well,  that's  how  it  began.  She  wanted  the 
unusual — and  I  turned  up.  After  a  while  she  thought 
I  wasn't  unusual  enough — said  it  in  so  many  words — 
But  you  know  that  story.  I've  told  you  too  many  time* 
already." 

"And  now?" 

"She  thinks  shell  marry  me." 

He  brought  out  the  statement  in  a  voice  all  awe  and 
amazement. 

"She  only  thinks?" 

"Oh,  she  will.  She  wouldn't  say  anything  about  it  if 
she  didn't  mean — " 

"And — and  you're  going  to — to  let  her?" 

"Let  her?  Why,  man,  you  might  as  well  ask  me  if 
I'd  let  God  forgive  my  sins  if  He  said  He'd  do  it." 

"God  could  forgive  your  sins  and  not  be  any  the  worse 
off  Himself." 

,  He  sprang  forward  in  his  chair,  grabbing  at  the  bed- 
clothes. 

"Frank,  I  swear  to  you  it  will  be  the  same  with  her. 
She'll  never  be  sorry.  I'll  never  let  her.  She'll  be  like 
God  to  me.    I'll  make  my  whole  life  worship  and  service." 

"If  that's  what  she  wants." 

"It's  what  every  woman  wants,  so  they  say.    They 
328 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

jutt  ask  to  be  loved;  and  when  you  love  them  enough—" 
He  uttered  a  Uttle  thrill  laugh,  in  which  there  was  a 
touch  of  the  hysterical  that  was  always  somewhere  about 
him.    "God  I    Frank,  it's  wonderfuH    Even  you  who 
know  her  can't  imagine  what  it  means  to  a  lonely  bloke 
like  me." 
I  pumped  myself  up  to  a  great  effort 
"Suppose"— I  had  to  moisten  my  Ups  before  going  on 
—  'suppose  she  was  to  play  you  the  same  trick  she  played 
you  before?" 
"She  wouldn't." 

In  spite  of  his  evident  conviction,  I  pressed  the  question. 
"But  if  she  did?" 

He  threw  off  in  a  tone  that  seemed  fcareless:  "In  that 
case  there'd  be  just  one  thing  for  me  to  do.  I'd  leave 
her  everything  I  possess— I'm  doing  that  as  it  is— and, 
weU,  you  can  guess  the  rest.  I— I  couldn't  go  through  all 
that  again.  The  first  time— well,  I  just  puUed  it  off: 
but  the  second — " 

It  was  the  old  stoiy.  They  aU  seemed  to  have  the 
second  time  on  the  brain.  I,  too,  was  getting  it  on  the 
brain.  It  was  like  a  trip-hammer  pounding  in  my  head. 
I  forced  myself,  however,  to  make  some  foolish,  semi- 
jovial  speech  in  which  there  was  no  congratulauon,  beg- 
png  him,  then,  for  the  love  of  Heaven,  to  dear  out,  as  1 
wanted  to  go  to  sleep. 


CHAPTER  XXV 


y, 


No  record  of  the  next  few  week*  exists  for  me.  I 
suppose  I  must  have  done  things — little  things.  I 
must  have  gone  in  and  out,  and  eaten  my  meals,  and  ful- 
filled Lovey's  orders — for,  lacking  volition  of  my  own, 
I  was  entirely  at  his  command.  But  the  recollection  of 
it  all  has  passed  from  me.  I  remember  reading  in  some 
one's  reminiscences  of  prison  life  that  the  weeks  of  noli- 
tary  confinement  went  by;  but  the  released  prisoner 
could  not  say  how.  Nothing  remained  with  him,  ap- 
parently, but  a  big,  black  blur;  and  of  these  first  weeks 
in  New  York  it  was  all  that  stayed  with  me. 

I  know  that  Christmas  came  and  went,  and  that  I 
•pent  the  festival  at  Atlantic  City.  I  did  this  in  a  wild 
hope,  which  I  knew  was  idiotic  when  I  formed  it.  I  told 
Lovey  what  I  was  about  to  do;  I  knew  he,  in  the  course 
of  his  valeting,  which  he  still  kept  up,  would  tell  Cantyre; 
I  guessed  that  Cantyre  would  tell  Regina;  and  I  hoped — 
it  never  really  amounted  to  hoping,  I  only  dreamed — 
that  Regina  might  find  the  moment  a  favorable  one  for 
slipping  away  and  joining  me.  Then  we  should  actually 
do  the  thing  so  impossible  to  plan. 

But,  of  course,  nothing  came  of  it;  and  I  returned  to 
New  York  more  unsatisfied  than  I  had  gone  away.  The 
sense  of  being  unsatisfied  sent  me  at  last  to  Sterling 
Barry's  door. 

You  will  observe  that  I  had  not  talked  with  Regina 
since  our  last  night  on  board  ship.  On  the  morning  of 
330 


i 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

landing  her  quick  movemenu,  a«  compared  with  my  ilow, 
lumbering  onei,  enabled  her  to  elude  me.  Since  our 
landing  my  will  had  been  positively  paralyzed.  Thoie 
words  of  hers,  "Oh,  Frank,  I  hope  you  won't  make  meP' 
were  always  in  my  memory;  but  the  very  sense  that  I 
could  use  the  power  held  me  back  from  doing  it.  I  meant 
to  use  it;  but  as  each  minute  came  round  when  I  might 
have  taken  a  step  toward  that  end  I  seemed  to  fall  back- 
ward, like  the  men  who  went  out  with  swords  and  staves 
to  take  the  Christ. 

But  two  days  after  my  return  from  Atlantic  City  I  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  I  could  wait  no  loager.  I  could  go 
and  call  on  her  at  least.  For  the  family  it  would  mean 
no  more  than  that  I  had  come  to  offer  my  congratula- 
tions. For  her — but  I  could  tell  that  only  by  being  face 
to  face  with  her. 

The  old  manseivant  recognized  me  on  coming  to  the 
door.  He  was  sorry  that  Miss  Barry  had  gone  to  tea 
with  Miss  van  Elstine,  and  was  sure  his  mistress  would 
be  sorry,  too.  Moreover,  they  had  all  heard  of  my 
prowess  in  battle,  and  were  proud  of  me. 

So  I  drove  round  in  my  taxi  to  Annette's. 

The  maid  would  have  ushered  me  straight  up  to  the 
library,  but  I  preferred  to  send  in  my  card.  As  I  was 
being  conducted  up-stairs  a  minute  later  I  had  the  privilege 
of  hearing  a  few  words  which  I  am  sure  Annette  intended 
for  my  ear. 

"Well,  I  don't  mind  this  once,  Regina;  but  I  can't 
have  it  going  on.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  know  it's  an  accident;  but 
it's  an  accident  that  mustn't  continue  to  happen.  The 
very  fact  that  he's  my  cousin  obliges  me  to  be  ths  mote 
careful.  It  wouldn't  be  fair  to  your  father  and  motlier 
if  I  were  to  let  you  come  her 
33  « 


THE   CITY  OF  COMRADES 

"But,  Annette,  thii  once  ii  all  I'm  aaking  for." 

"And  all  I  mean  to  grant." 

I  could  tell  by  Annette'i  voice  that  the  was  retreating 
to  another  room,  so  that  by  the  time  I  entered  Regina 
stood  there  alone.  Before  I  knew  what  I  was  doing  I 
held  both  her  hands  in  mine  and  was  kissing  them. 

It  is  an  odd  fact  that  on  raising  my  eyes  I  saw  her 
fea!:ures  for  the  first  time  since  that  summer  afternoon 
at  Rosyth.  On  board  ship  she  had  always  worn  the  yash- 
mak; and  on  the  dock  she  had  been  too  far  away  to  allow 
of  my  seeing  more  than  that  she  was  there. 

The  face  I  saw  now  was  not  like  Annette's,  untouched 
by  the  passage  of  time  and  suiFering  and  world  agony. 
You  might  have  said  that  in  its  shadows  and  lines  and 
intensities  the  whole  history  of  the  epoch  was  expressed. 
It  was  one  of  those  twentieth-century  faces— they  are 
women's  faces,  as  a  rule — on  which  the  heroic  in  our 
time  has  stamped  itself  in  lineaments  which  neither  paint 
nor  marble  could  reproduce.  It  flashed  on  me  that  the 
transmigrated  soul  had  traveled  farther  than  I  had  sus- 
pected. 

I  don't  know  wnat  we  said  to  each  other  at  first.  They 
were  no  more  than  broken  things,  not  to  be  oet  down  by 
the  pen.  When  I  came  to  the  consciousness  of  my 
actual  words  I  was  saying,  "I'm  going  to  make  you, 
Regina;  I'm  going       make  you." 

She  responded  like  a  child  who  recognizes  power,  but 
has  no  questionings  as  to  right  and  wrong. 

"Are  you,  Frank f    How?" 

"In  any  way  that  suggests  itself."  I  added,  helplessly, 
"I  don't  know  how." 

"I'll  do  whatever  you  tell  me,"  she  said,  simply  and 
■u'jmissively. 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

"Then  will  you  juM  walk  «way  with  me  Mine  iftei^ 
noon — and  be  married — without  saying  anything  to  any 
one?" 
"If  you  fay  go." 
"When  ihall  we  do  it?" 
"V/henever  you  like." 
"Next  week?" 
"If  that  suits  you." 
'    "Would  it  suit  you?" 

She  bent  her  head  and  was  silent.    I  repeated  the 
question  with  more  insistence. 
"Would  it  suit  you,  Regina?" 
"Theie's  no  question  of  suiting  me.    I've  got  myself 
where  I  can't  be"— she  smiled,  a  twitching,  nervous  smile 
— "where  I  can't  be  suited." 

"Do  you  mean  that  you'd  come  with  me— ^en  you 
wouldn't  want  to?" 
"Something  like  that." 
"Why  should  you?" 

"I've  told  you  that.    I've— I've  let  you  see  it— in 
what  I've  been  doing  for  the  past  two  years." 
"So  that  I'm  absolutely  master?" 
"That's  it." 

I  turned  away  from  her,  walking  to  the  other  end  of 
the  long  room.    When  I  came  back  she  was  standing  as 
I  had  left  her,  humbly,  with  eyes  downcast,  like  a  slave- 
girl  put  up  for  sale. 
I  paused  in  front  of  her. 

"Do  you  know  that  your  abandonment  of  will  putr  us 
both  in  an  extraordinary  position?" 

"Yes."    She  went  on  presently,  "But  I  know,  too, 
that  where  you're  concerned  my  will-power  has  left  me." 
"But  that  isn't  like  you." 
333 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

She  shook  her  head. 

"No,  it  iin't.  Generally  my  will  u  nther  ittoog. 
But  in  thi*  ca»e—  You  lee— I'd— I'd  waited  lo  long— 
and  I'd  never  believed  that  you— that  you  cared  anything 
— and  now  that  I  know  you  do— well,  Wt  finipiy  made  me 
helpleti.    I've— I've  no  will  at  all." 

"So  that  I  mutt  have  enough  for  twof 

"1  fuppote  la" 

"And  if  I— if  I  carry  you  off— and  make  every  one  un- 
happy— and  put  you  in  a  position  where  you'd  be — where 
you'd  be  done  foi— that^s  what  Annette  calls  it— the 
ttsponsibility  would  be  all  mine?" 

"I  should  never  reproach  you." 

"In  words." 

"Nor  in  thought — if  I  could  help  it" 

"But  you  mightn't  be  able  to  help  it* 

To  this  there  was  no  reply.  I  took  another  turn  to 
the  end  of  the  room.  My  freedom  of  action  was  terrifying. 
Since  I  could  do  with  her  what  I  liked,  I  was  afraid  to  do 
anything.    I  came  back  and  said  so. 

The  old  Regina  woke  as  she  murmuxed,  "If  you're 
afiraiH  to  do  anything— do  nothing." 

"And  what  would  you  do?" 

"I  should  let  things  take  their  course." 

"Let  things  take  their  course — and  many  him?" 

"If  things  took  their  course  that  way." 

"Do  you  mean  that  they  mightn't  take  thar  course 
that  way?" 

"I'm  not  mairied  to  him  yet  There  are— there  are 
difficulties." 

I  caught  her  by  the  ann.    "0^what  kind  ?" 

"Of  opinion  chiefly — but  of  very  vital  opinion." . 

"Do  you  mean  about  the  war?" 
334 


Itt 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

^  She  Mid  with  a  fbic*  lika  that  of  a  nipptMMd  ciyi 
"He  waiMf  me  not  to  have  anything  mora  to  do  with  iti 
And  I— I  can't  itop— not  while  it'»  going  on.  I — I  mutt 
be  doing  tomething.  It's  one  of  the  reatom  why  I  could 
many  him— that  he'i  a  doctor— and  I  could  take  him 
over  there—where  they  need  him  io  much." 

"And  he  won't  gof" 

"He  doeen't  lay  that  enctly;  but  he  doem't  want  to. 
He  thinks  it'i  all  wrong— that  when  it  cornea  to  brutality, 
one  tide  ii  at  bad  at  the  other." 

"Oh,  he'll  get  over  that— if  you  intiit;  and  dm  yoaH 
marry  him." 

"Perhapa  ao-if  I  haven't  alraady  manied  you." 

"What  maket  you  think  you  may  haw  married  mef 

"You  laid  you'd  make  me." 

And  in  the  end,  when  Annette  came  back,  «•  left  it 
at  that,  with  eveiything  up  in  the  air. 


CSAPTER  XXri 


tmitii' 


MORE  weeks 'followed,  of  which  my  lecotd  it  chiefly 
in  the  drama  of  public  events. 

Vast  as  these  were  at  the  time,  they  seem  even  vaster 
in  the  retrospect.  As  my  memory  goes  back  to  them 
they  are  like  prodigious  portents  in  the  sky,  awful  to 
look  at  and  still  more  awful  to  think  about.  A  time 
win  come  when  we  shall  find  it  amazing  merely  to  have 
lived  through  such  happenings. 

Before  the  invaders  the  Rumanian  towns  were  going 
down  like  houses  built  of  blocks.  In  her  attitude  to 
Rumania,  Russia  was  a  mystery — a  husband  who  sees  his 
wife  fighting  for  her  life  and  doing  hardly  anything  to 
help  her.  The  rumors,  true  or  false,  that  reached  us 
might  have  been  torn  from  some  stupendous,  improbable 
romance — a  feeble  Czar,  a  beautiful  and  traitorous  Czar- 
ina, a  corrupt  nobility,  an  aimy  betrayed,  a  people  seeth- 
ing in  dreams  and  furies  and  ignorance.  Washington, 
having  gone  so  far  as  to  ask  the  Allied  nations  their  peace 
conditions,  had  received  them — restitution,  reparation, 
and  future  security.  Then  late  in  that  month  of  January, 
191 7,  there  came  to  people  like  me  an  unexpected  shock. 
Before  the  Senate  President  Wilson  delivered  the  speech 
of  which  the  tag  that  ran  electrically  round  the  world 
was  peace  without  victory. 

I  mention  these  things  because  they  are  the  only  way- 
mirks  of  a  time  during  which  my  private  life  seemed 
336 


M 


THE   CITY  OF  COMRADES 

to  be  drearily  and  hopelessly  at  a  ttandsdlL  The  dead- 
lock of  the  nations  reacted  on  myself.  Mentally  I  was 
at  grips  with  destiny,  but  nothing  made  any  progress.  I 
was  exactly  where  I  had  started,  as  regards  R^na^  as 
regards  Cantyre,  as  regards  Annette,  as  regards  the 
father  and  mother  Barry.  Outwardly  I  was  on  friendly 
terms  with  them  aU,  and  on  no  more  than  friendly  terms 
with  any  one. 

The  Barrys  invited  me  to  dinner,  and'l  went.  Cantyre 
made  up  a  theater  party— he  was  fond  of  this  form  of 
recreation— and  I  went  r  ^  that.  Annette  asked  me  to  a 
Swiday  lunch  at  which  Cantyre  and  Regina  were  guests. 
The  force  of  organized  life  held  us  together  as  a  cohesive 
group;  the  operation  of  conventional  good  manners  kept 
us  to  courtesies.  That  any  one  was  happy  I  do  not  be- 
lieve; but  life  threw  its  mask  even  on  unhappiness. 

I  got  in,  of  course,  an  occasional  word  with  Regina, 
which,  nevertheless,  didn't  help  me.  As  far  as  I  could 
observe,  she  lived  and  moved  in  a  kind  of  hypnotic  state, 
from  which  nothing  I  knew  how  to  say  could  wake  her. 
She  was  always  waiting  for  me  to  give  the  word,  and 
I,was  afraid  to  give  it.  If  there  was  hypnotism,  it  affected 
us  both,  since  I  was  as  deeply  in  the  trance  as  she. 

Now  and  then,  however,  she  came  out  of  it  with  some 
bnef  remark  which  gave  me  a  lead  and  perhaps  made  me 
hope.  One  such  occasion  was  at  the  theater.  Cantyre 
had  not  put  me  next  to  her,  but  there  was  an  entr'acte 
when  I  found  his  place  empty  and  slipped  into  it. 

"And  how  are  events  taking  their  course?"  I  asked, 
with  a  semblance  of  speaking  cheerily. 


"I'm  waiting  to  see." 


"Still?" 
"StilL" 


»7 


'\  - 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

"And  how  long  is  that  to  go  on?" 

"TBI  events  have  shaped  their  course  in  a  way  that 
will  tell  me  what  to  do." 

"How  shall  you  know  that?" 

"How  does  the  twig  know  when  the  current  takes  it 
from  the  spot  where  it  has  been  caught  and  carries  it 
down-stream?" 

"Oh,  but  you've  got  intelligence." 

"Any  intelligence  I've  got  implores  me  to  keep  on 
waiting." 

"So  that  you're  liot  going  to  be  married  right  away?" 

"I  shall  not  be  married  till  I  see  it's  the  obvious  thing 
to  do." 

"Not  even  to  me?" 

"That's  different.    I've  already  told  you—" 

"That  if  I  give  the  word—  But  don't  you  see  I 
can't  give  it?" 

"Exactly.  You're  wairing  for  the  sign  as  much  as  I 
am." 

"What  sign?" 

"We  shall  recognize  it  when  the  time  comes." 

"Where  will  it  come  from?" 

"Right  up  out  of  life;  I  don't  know  where,  nor  how." 

"Who'U  give  it  to  usr 

She  had  only  time,  as  Cantyre  returned  to  his  seat, 
to  send  me  a  long,  slantwise  look,  with  the  underscored 
words,  "You  know!" 

Another  time  was  in  the  regrouping  of  guests,  after 
Annette's  luncheon.  Finding  myself  beside  her  at  a  win- 
dow, I  asked  the  plain  question,  "Are  you  engaged  to 
Cantyre?" 

"I'm  just  where  I  was  when  I  told  you  about  it  oix 
board  ship.    He  hasn't  asked  me  to  be  moie  definite." 
338 


:!'! 


THE  CITY  OF   COMRADES 

"Is  he  just  where  he  was?" 

"I  think  he  is,  in  that— in  that  he  espectt  me  to  marry 
him." 

"And  you  leave  him  under  that  impression?" 

"I  don't  know  what  else  to  do— till  I  get  the  sign." 

"You're  still  looking  for  that?" 

"Yes.    Aren't  you?" 

"Not  that  I'm  aware  of." 

"Oh,  but  you  are,  whether  you're  aware  of  it  or  not." 

"And  suppose  he  urges  you  before  the  sign  comes?" 

"I  shall  still  wait." 

"And  suppose  I  urged  you?" 

"I'd  take  that  as  the  sign." 

And  after  the  guests  went  I  stayed  behind  and  told 
the  whole  story  to  Annette.  So  long  as  there  were  no 
clandestine  meetings  under  her  roof,  she  was  as  detached 
and  sympathetic  and  non-committal  as  a  chorus  in  a 
Greek  play. 

"Why  don't  you  give  her  the  sign,  if  it's  not  a  rude 
question?"  she  asked,  while  a  marvelous  succession  of 
ripples  circled  over  her  duskiness. 

"Because  I'm  afraid  to.  Think  what  it  would  mean  to 
Cantyre,  who's  been  so  white  with  me  all  these  years." 

"As  well  as  to  every  one  concerned,  including  herself 
and  you.  I'm  glad  you've  enough  common  sense  to  feel 
that.  See  here,  Frank,"  she  went  on,  kindly,  "you've 
got  to  pull  yourself  out  of  this  state  of  mind.  It's  doing 
you  no  good.  When  you  ought  to  be  at  work  for  your 
country,  which  needs  you  desperately,  you're  sulking  over 
a  love-affair.  Buck  up!  Be  a  sport!  Be  a  man!  There 
are  lots  of  nice  girls  in  New  York.  I'll  find  you  some 
one." 

But  at  that  I  ran  away. 

339 


CHAPTER  XXVn 


lil' 


Ih-I 


..:5i  I 


WITHIN  a  few  days  I  saw  the  correctness  of 
Annette's  summing  up. 

A  medieval  legend  tells  of  an  angel  being  sent  to  Satan 
with  the  message  that  God  meant  to  take  from  the  devil 
all  the  temptations  with  which  he  had  seduced  man- 
kind. To  this  Satan  resigned  himself  because  he  couldn't 
help  it,  begging  of  the  angel  that  he  should  be  left  with 
just  one — and  that  the  least  important.  "Which?"  asked 
the  angel.  "Depression,"  said  Satan.  The  angel  con- 
sidered the  request,  found  that  depression  cut  but  slight 
figure  as  a  sin,  and  went  back  to  heaven,  leaving  it  behind 
him.  "Good  I"  laughed  Satan,  as  the  celestial  vision 
faded  out.  "In  this  one  gift  I've  secured  the  ^ole  bag 
of  tricks." 

And  that  is  what  I  was  to  find. 

I  was  depressed  on  leaving  Europe.  I  grew  more  de- 
pressed because  of  the  experience  on  board  ship.  In 
New  York  I  was  still  more  depressed.  There  was  a 
month  in  which  all  things  worked  together  for  evil;  and 
then  I  came  to  the  place  at  which  Satan  had  desired  to 
have  me. 

I  have  not  said  that  during  all  this  time  I  made  no 
attempt  to  look  up  my  old  friends  at  the  Down  and  Out 
or,  beyond  an  occasional  argument  with  Cantyre,  to  ful- 
fil the  mission  with  which  I  had  been  intrusted.  Ralph 
Coningsby  had  come  and  offered  me  work,  and  I  had 
340 


THE   CITY  QF  COMRADES 

tefused  it.    Ev«i  the  mareh  of  public  events,  with  the 
introduction  of  U^es.  submarine  warfare  and  the  break- 
ing off  of  diplomatic  relations  between  Germany  and  the 
United  States    hadn't  roused  me.    I  marked  the  slow 
rise  of  the  impulse  toward  war  in  the  breasts  of  the  Ameri- 
can people,  as  passionless  and  as  irresistible  as  an  incoming 
tide,  but  It  seemed  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  me.    I  was 
out  of  It,  flung  aside  by  a  fate  that  had  made  sport  of  me 
1  was  so  far  from  the  current  of  whatever  could  be  called 
life  that  I  grew  apathetic.    Though  I  hadn't  seen  Regina 
for  weeks,  I  sat  down  under  the  impalpable  obstacles  be- 
tween us,  making  no  effort  to  overcome  them.     I  ate 
and  drank  and  slept  and  brooded  on  the  futility  of  living, 
and  let  the  doing  so  fill  my  time.     Lovey  was  worried, 
and  dogged  me  round  till  there  were  minutes  when  I 
•»"J^  "2'*'e  sprung  on  him  and  choked  him. 

Then  came  the  afternoon  when  I  decided  that  Satan 
must  nave  his  way. 

There  is  a  hotel  in  New  York  of  which  I  had  many 
recollections  because  I  had  frequented  its  barroom  in  the 
days  before  I  went  altogether  down.  It  is  a  somewhat 
expensive-lookmg  barroom,  with  heavy  mahogany,  gilded 
cornices,  and  frescoes  of  hunting-scenes  on  the  wall. 
Hanging  over  the  bar  at  any  time  during  the  day  or  night 
can  be  seen  all  the  types  that  are  commonly  known  as 
sporting,  from  the  dashing  to  the  cheap. 

They  might  have  been  the/ same  as  on  that  day  when  I 
turned  my  back  upon  the  place  five  years  previously, 
ihey  hung  m  the  same  attitudes;  they  called  for  the 
same  dnnks;  they  used  the  same  profanities,  though 
with  some  novelty  in  the  slang.  With  my  limp,  my  black 
patch,  and  my  general  haggardness,  I  felt  like  a  ghost 
»eturmng  among  them. 

341 


I 


THE   CITY   OF   COMRADES 

Timidly  I  approached  a  barman  at  leiaare  and  asked 
for  a  cocktail  of  a  brand  for  which  I  used  to  have  a  liking. 
I  carried  it  off  to  a  table  placed  inconspicuously  behind 
the  door  leading  to  and  from  the  hotel.  Putting  it  on 
the  table,  I  stared  at  its  amber  reflections. 

I  had  come  back  to  the  same  old  place  at  last.  It  was 
curious;  but  there  I  was.  All  my  struggling,  all  my  wan- 
dering, all  my  up-hill  work,  all  my  days  and  nights  in 
the  trenches,  all  my  suffering,  all  my  love — everything 
had  combined  together  to  land  me  just  here,  where,  so 
to  speak,  I  had  begun.  It  was  the  old  story  of  dragging 
up  the  cliff,  only  to  fall  over  the  precipice.  It  seemed 
to  be  my  fate.    There  was  no  escaping  it. 

I  might  not  take  more  than  that  one  drink  during  that 
afternoon;  but  I  knew  it  would  be  a  beginning.  I  should 
come  back  again;  and  I  should  come  back  again  after 
that.  Another  type  of  man  would  do  nothing  of  the  kind; 
but  I  was  my  own  type. 

Very  deliberately  I  said  good-by  to  the  world  I  had 
known  for  the  past  three  years  and  more.  I  said  good- 
by  to  work,  to  ambition,  to  salvation,  to  country,  to  love. 
Back,  far  back  in  my  mind  I  was  saying  the  same  delib- 
erate good-by  to  God.  I  shouldn't  rest  now  till  every- 
thing was  gone. 

The  glass  was  still  untasted  on  the  table.  I  was  taking 
my  time.  The  farewells  on  which  I  was  engaged  couldn't 
be  hurried.    The  fate  in  store  for  me  would  wait. 

Then  the  door  behind  which  I  sat  began  to  open.  It 
opened  slowly,  timidly,  stealthily,  as  if  the  person  entering 
was  afraid  to  come  in.  The  action  stirred  the  curiosity, 
and  I  watched. 

Before  I  saw  a  face  I  saw  a  hand.  Rather,  I  saw  four 
fingers  from  the  knuckles  to  the  nails,  as  if  some  one  was 
34a 


41 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

weadying  himself  by  the  sheer  force  of  holding  on.  They 
were  old,  thin,  twisted  fingers,  and  I  knew  at  a  glance 
I  had  seen  them  before. 

The  door  continued  to  open,  stealthily,  timidly,  slowly; 
and  then,  looking  like  a  spirit  rather  than  a  man— a 
neat,  respectable  spirit  wealing  a  silver  star  in  his  but- 
tonhole, with  trembling  hands  and  a  woeful  quiver  to 
the  comer  of  his  lower  lip— Lovey  stood  in  the  bartoom. 

He  stood  as  if  he  had  never  been  in  any  such  place 
before.  He  was  like  a  visitant  from  some  other  sphere- 
dazed,  diaphanous,  unearthly. 

He  didn't  look  at  the  table  behind  the  door.  His  gaze 
was  far  off.  I  could  see  it  scanning  the  backs  of  the 
hangers  across  the  bar.  Then  it  went  over  the  tables  one 
by  one,  traveling  nearer  and  nearer. 

Just  before  the  dim  eyes  reached  me  I  said:   "Hello, 

drink?"  ^°"^  '"^  *"  ^°^'  "^^  '"  ^°"  '"'''  *** 
There  seemed  to  be  an  interval  between  hearing  my 
voice  and  actually  seeing  me— an  interval  during  which 
a  frosty,  unnatural  color,  as  if  snow  were  suddenly  to 
take  fire,  flared  in  his  waxlike  cheek.  But  he  came  to  the 
table  and  dropped  into  a  round-backed  chair. 
"Oh,  Slim!" 

Leaning  on  the  table,  he  covered  his  face  with  his 
hand. 

I   tried   putting   up   a   bluff.     "What's   the   matter, 
Lovey i    Haven't  got  a  headache,  ha"e  you?" 
He  raised  those  pitiful,  dead  blue  eyes.     "No,  but  I've 

*°*?,n  """*^*"'  S'm— a  'eartache  I  won't  never  get  over." 
Vfhy,  why—"  I  began  to  rally  him. 
"It's  just  what  I  was  afeared  of— for  days  and  days 
1  ve  been  afeared  of  it.    Been  a-watchin'  of  you,  I  'ave." 
343 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

Hare  wat  another  tmumigrated  loiil  that  had  travded 
fanher  than  I  knew.  It  wa«  in  pun  curiosity  a*  to  the 
chanBBii  wrought  in  him  that  I  said:  "I  should  think  you 
would  have  been  glad,  Lovey.  When  I  wat  here  before 
you  uied  to  want  to  have  u*  both  go  back." 

The  extinct  eye*  were  raited  on  me. 

"Thete  timet  ain't  them  timet.  Everythin't  differ^ 
ent.  I  'aven't  itayed  where  I  wat  in  them  dayt,  not  any 
more  nor  you.    Oh,  to  think,  to  think  1" 

"To  think  what?" 

"That  you  thould  'ave  come  back  to  this — and  me 
bclievin'  the  war  'ad  done  ye  good— lifted  you  up,  like. 
Not  but  what  you  wat  the  best  man  ever  lived  before  the 


"Oh  no,  Lovey.  No  one  knows  what  I  was  better  than 
yourself." 

"You  was  good  even  then,  sonny — even  in  them  awful 
old  days.  Goodness  ain't  just  in  doin'  certain  things; 
it's  in  being  certain  things.  I  don't  'ardly  know  what 
it  is;  but  1  can  tell  it  when  I  see  it.  And  I  seen  it  in 
you.  Slim — right  from  the  first.  Me  and  God  A'mighty 
seen  it  together.  That's  why  He  pulled  you  up  out  o' 
what  you  was — and  made  you  rich — iv.d  dressed  you  in 
swell  do'es — and  sent  you  to  the  war — and  made  you  a 
'ero — and  stuck  you  all  over  with  medals — and  brought 
you  'ome  again  to  me.    And  if  you'd  only  waited — " 

"Well,  if  I'd  only  waited— what?" 

"You'd  'a'  got  somethink  better  still.  You'd  'a'  got 
it  pretty  soon." 

"What  should  I  have  got?" 

"I  ain't  a-goin'  to  tell  ye.  If  you'd  come  'ome  with 
me  you'd  see."  Before  I  could  follow  up  this  dark  hint 
he  continued:  "God  A'mighty  don't  play  no  tricks  on 
344 


THE   CITY  OF  COMRADES 

Hit  children.  Lookatmel  All  He',  give  me.  Kep' me 
well  while  you  wa»  away— and  'elped  me  to  knock  off 
the  booze  when  it  wai  mortal  'ard  to  do  it— and  pervided 
me  with  a  good  'ome,  thank*  to  you,  Slim  I— and  work— 
and  waget— and  a  very  nice  man  to  work  for,  all  except 
bein'  a  bit  stuck  on  'isself— and  let  me  off  washin'  windows, 
which  was  never  a  trade  for  an  eddicated  man  like  me— 
and  brought  you  back  to  me,  which  was  the  best  thing 
of  all — and  just  because  I  waited." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  waiting?" 

"I  mean  waitin'  for  Him.  That's  somethink  I've  found 
out  smce  you  went  away,  sonny.  It's  a  tip  as  Beady 
Lament  give  me.  You've  got  to  wait  patient-like  for 
Him;  and  if  you  do  He'll  come  to  you." 

"I  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about." 

"Of  course  you  don't.  That's  why  I'm  a-tellin'  of 
you.  It  was  like  this:  When  you  went  away  it  was  some- 
think fierce  for  me— nothink  but  that  empty  flat— and 
everythin'  speakin'  to  me  o'  you,  like— yer  do'es  and  yer 
boots  and  yer  books  and  yer  pipes,  and  the  chairs  you 
used  to  sit  on,  and  the  bed  you  used  to  sleep  in— and 
everythink  like  that— till  I  thought  I  was  goin'  crazy. 
Man/s  the  time  I  wanted  to  come  and  do  just  what 
you're  a-doin'  of  now--but  I'd  think  o'  the  promise  I 
give  you  before  ye  went— and  I'd  'ang  on  a  bit  more. 
And  then  God  A'mighty  Hisself  come  and  spoke  to  me, 
just  as  He  did  to  Beady  Lament  that  time  he  told  us 
about  when  we  was  in  the  blue  stars." 

"And  what  did  God  Almighty  sayP' 

"He  come  in  the  middle  o'  the  night,  and  woke  me  up 
out  of  a  sound  sleep — " 

"How  did  you  know  it  was  He?" 

"C*,  I  knowed.    Ye  couldn't  'elp  knowjn'." 


? 


23 


345 


THE   CITY  OF  COMRADES 


"Did  you  hear  HU  voice f" 

"Ye  didn't  'ave  to  'ear.  It  jutt  went  all  over  ye,  like. 
I  litt  up  in  bed,  and  everything  wai  dark  and  light  at  the 
tame  time,  and  something  awful  comfortin'  like  iweepin' 
through  and  through  me.  Ye  couldn't  'ardly  say  it  was 
'earin'  or  seein'  or  feelin'  or  nothink.  It  was  just  under- 
standin',  like — but  you  knowed  it  was  theie." 
"But  you  haven't  told  me  what  He  said." 
"That's  what  I'm  a-comin'  to.  He  says:  'Lovey,'  says 
He,  'you've  put  up  a  good  fight,  and  now  ye're  over  the 
worst  of  it.  But  I'm  with  ye  all  the  time,'  says  He; 
'only  I  can't  give  ye  everythin'  to  oncet.  All  ye  can  take 
is  what  ye've  made  yerself  fit  to  receive,'  says  He;  'be- 
cause there  was  a  good  many  years  in  yer  life  when  ye 
wasn't  fit  to  receive  nothink.  But  just  you  wait,  and 
you'll  see  'ow  good  I'll  be  to  you  by  degrees,'  says  He. 
'You  go  on  fightin'  in  your  way,  just  as  that  young  fella. 
Slim,  is  fightin'  in  his  way,  and  I'll  do  you  both  good, 
and  bring  you  back  to  each  other,'  says  He.  And,  oh, 
sonny.  He's  kep'  His  word — all  but  right  up  till  now,  when 
you've  been  goin'  about  that  sad-like — and  not  wantin' 
to  be  'ome.  And  now  this  I" 
"But  that's  not  God,  Lovey;  that's  me." 
"I  don't  see  much  difference.  The  most  ways  I  gets 
a'old  o'  God,  as  you  might  say,  is  through  the  nice  thijigs 
people  does  for  me — and  the  nice  people  theirselves — 
especially  men — I  don't  'old  with  women — and  more 
particular  you,  Slim — ^you  that  was  more  to  me  than  my 
own  children  ever  was — than  my  ow6  life — yes,  sonny,  than 
my  own  life.    I  ain't  a-goin'  to  live  very 


my  own  lite.    1  ain't  a-goin 
"What  makes  you  think  sof" 
"I  'appen  to  know,"  he  replied,  briefly, 

you  can  tell." 

346 


very  long  now — " 


'There's  ways 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 
"Whit  way»r 

"Smellin',  for  one  thing.     Ye  can  tmeU  death  jiut  aa 

^  a.  ye  can  imell  flowen.  or  the  fn^'  o'  tuh,  or  anr 

other  imell;   and  it',  a  .ign  ye'll  never  be  mittook  in." 

_  His  aicetic  profile  wa«  thrown  up,  with  a  long  miff  through 

hi.  dehcat^  quivering  nostril..    "I  can  «mell  it  now^ 

«.d  h;  went  on  eagerly:  "But  what  I'm  tellin'  you  i. 
that  If  I  could  die  to  .ave  you  from  what  ye'«  beginnin' 
to  do  thi,  day,  Slim,  I'd  do  it  cheerful.  I  know^  you 
wa.  bent  on  it  before  ye  knowed  it  yerself.  I've  been 
»-watch|n  on  ye,  and  foUerin'  you  about  when  ye  didn't 
iee  me. 
"How  did  you  know?" 

T  v^  "".'* •*'"  ^'  '"''-«<«  n°  mo"  than  I  could  tell  you 
I  knowed  It  wa.  God.  It  don't  matter  'ow  you  know 
tiling,  a.  long  a.  you  know  them,  does  it?" 

"Perhap.  not." 
^  "I've  just  been  a-Iivin'  in  yer  skin  ever  since  ye  come 
ome,  «,nny.  It  was  as  if  all  yer  thoughts  passed  through 
my  mind,  and  all  yer  feelin's  through  my  'eart.  I  ain't 
much  of  a  and  at  love-that  kind  of  female  love,  I  mean 
-not  now,  I  am  t;  but  I  know  that  when  ye're  young  it 
kind  o'  ketches  you—"  /      8  •<• 

..     "Stop,  Lovey,"  I  said,  wamingly. 

"All  right.  Slim,  I'll  «op.    I  don't  need  to  go  on.    All 
I  want  to  say  is  that  you  don't  know-you  couldn't  know 
-the  fancy  I  ve  took  to  you-and  I  used  to  think  that 
you  kind  o'  'ad  a  fancy  for  me,  like." 
"So  I  have." 

The  mild  eyes  searched  me.    There  was  a  violent  trem- 
bliilg  of  the  lower  lip. 
"Do  you  mean  that.  Slim?"    Before  I  could  answer  he 
347 


iiir 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

addad.  proudly:   "I  don't  need  to  '«ve  "»  <^  -y^ 
they've  got  •  fancy  for  me  when  they  'iven't." 
"Oh,  but  it'i  true!" 

Two  thivering  h»ndi  were  etretched  out  toward  me 
in  dramatic  appcaL 

"Oh,  then  leave  that  there  drmk  alone  and  come 

•ome  alone  o'  me."    HU  eye*  fell  on  the  glaw.    "'Ow 

many  o'  them  thingt  'ave  ye  'adr  ^ 

"None  yet;  this  i«  the  firtt;  and  I  haven  t  tarted  it. 

He  straightened  himtelf  up,  ipcaking  with  what  I  can 

only  call  a  kind  of  exaltation. 

"Then  God  A'mighty  has  sent  me  to  you  m  time. 
It'i  Him— and  except  Him  'tain't  no  one  nor  nothink. 
Slim,  if  you  put*  yer  Up*  to  that  gla**  now  yell  be  *mnm 
in  Hi*  face  ju*t  a*  much  a*  if  it  wa»  Him  and  not  me  a* 
wa*  a-pleadin*  with  ye." 
"It  i*n't  a  *in  to  take  a  cocktail."  ^ 

"Not  for  every  one,  I  don't  luppoae.  It  wouldn  t  be 
for  the  doctor;  and  it  wouldn't  be  for  Mr.  Coningsby; 
but  'ti*  for  me,  and  'ti*  for  you.  There'*  take-it-and- 
leave-it  people  in  the  world,  and  there'*  take-it-and-be- 
damned;  and  you  and  me  belongs  to  the  last.  Oh,  Slim, 
don't  be  mad  wi'  mel  Ain't  ye  a  silver-star  man  in  the 
Down  and  Out?  Ain't  I  yer  next  friend— yer  real  next 
ftiend,  that  U— a  great  deal  more  than  that  young  Pyn, 
with  'is  impotent  tongue,  what  stood  up  with  youf 
Come  'ome  along  o'  me,  and  VH  show  you  somethm 
good." 
It  wa*  the  dark  hmt  agam. 

"What  are  you  driving  at,  Lovey?    What  i*  there  at 
home?" 

Hi*  reply  might  have  been  paraphraaed  from  a  wntuig 
he  had  never  heard  of. 

348 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

"There'i  things  ahead  of  you.  Slim,  dift  ent  from  what 
you're  expectin'  of.    Wait." 

I  confeei  to  being  startled.  You  must  see  i  i  i.s  in  an 
overwrought  condition,  reacting  from  thr  tr  ,i<>n«fon 
strain,  first  of  fighting,  then  of  blindness,  iu.\  r  -.lly  „t 
emotional  stress.  I  do  not  pretend  that  r  :  r  thi^  .:ny 
other  man  who  comes  back  from  the  jaws  .  '  he  infer  . ! 
brazier  in  Flanders  I  was  my  normal  *■  li  I  „ji,  ,-.,,iU 
up  and  easily  down,  euily  excited  and  n.ily  unpi  .seH. 
The  mere  cast  of  Lovey's  two  brief  sentvnce  ^.l,  iscl 
me. 

"\Vhat  things?"  I  asked,  with  that  mixture  oi  ■  i  .liility 
and  rejection  with  which  one  puts  questions  to  a  trance 
medium. 

^  "I'll  not  tell  ye;  I'll  show  ye;  only  ye  must  come 
ome.  As  if  m  illustration  of  his  words,  he  added, 
"Ye  must  begin  to  wait  right  now." 

"But  why  wait?" 

"Because  God  A'mighty  can't  give  us  everything  to 
oncet.  Didn't  I  say  He  told  me  that  Hisself  ?  We  ain't 
fit  to  receive  more  'n  a  little  at  a  time,  just  like  babies. 
That  s  another  tip  as  Beady  give  me.  And  Mr.  Christian 
he  p'mted  out  to  me  oncet  that  wait  is  one  of  the  frequent- 
est  words  in  the  Bible.  See  here!  Beady  writ  this  for 
me."  Fumbling  in  an  inside  pocket,  he  drew  forth  a 
carefully  folded  bit  of  paper,  saying,  as  he  did  so:  "It 
was  one  of  the  times  when  I  was  awful  low  in  my  mind 
because  you  was  away.  I  don't  'old  with  them  low  fellas 
at  thf  Down  and  Out— not  as  a  reg'lar  thing,  I  don't— 
but  now  and  then  when  I  just  couldn't  seem  to  get  along 
without  you  I'd  go  down  to  one  of  the  meetin's.  Then 
oncM  Beady  sits  beside  me  and  begins  a-kiddin'  o'  me, 
callin'  me  old  son  and  everything  like  that.  But  by  'n' 
349 


THE   CITY   OF   COMRADES 


i4t 
4 


if'! 


Ji'  (it 


by  he  sees  I  wasn't  in  no  such  humor,  and  we  starts  in 
to  talk  serious-like.  And  then — ^well,  I  don't  'ardly  know 
'ow  I  come  to  let  it  out — but  Beady  he  sees  just  'ow  it  was 
with  me,  and  he  bucks  me  up  and  writes  me  this.  He 
ain't  as  bad  as  you'd  think  he'd  be,  that  Beady.  It's 
good  words  out  of  the  Bible,  and  there's  a  reg'lar  tip  in 
em. 

The  shaky  hands  unfolded  the  bit  of  foolscap  on  which 
was  scrawled  in  a  laborious  script: 

"Wait  on  the  Lprd;  wait,  I  say,  on  the  Lord." 

Beneath  this  counsel  from  one  psalm  were  the  verses 
from  another: 

"I  waited  patiently  for  the  Lord;  and  he  inclined  unto 
me,  and  heard  my  cry.  He  brought  me  up  also  out  of 
an  horrible  pit,  out  of  the  miry  day,  and  set  my  feet  upon 
a  rock,  and  established  my  goings." 

I  suppose  you  will  call  m>  impulse  by  some  modem 
psychological  name,  and  for  aught  I  know  you  may  be 
right.  But  the  words  were  not  without  their  effect  on 
me.  They  came  to  me  with  the  mystery  of  a  message 
emanating  from  the  days  before  Time,  and  from  spheres 
which  have  no  need  of  the  sun  to  rise  or  of  the  moon  to 
give  brightness  or  of  the  light  of  any  candle.  That  it 
was  carried  to  me  by  this  tottering  old  man  whom  I  had 
known  in  such  different  conditions  only  added  to  the  awe. 

I  struggled  to  feet  that  were  as  shaky  as  Lovey's  hands, 
carried  my  little  white  ticket  to  the  bookkeeper,  paid  for 
my  drink,  which  I  had  left  untoudied,  and  flingirg  an 
"All  right,  Lovey;  I'm  your  manF'  to  him,  hobbled  out 
into  the  lobby  of  the  hotel. 

My  immediate  sensation  was  that  which  you  have 
known  when  the  black  cloud  of  troubles  that  envelopeJ 
you  on  waking  has  been  instantly  dispelled  on  your  get- 
3SO 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

ting  out  of  bed.  The  troubles  may  still  be  there;  but 
you  know  your  competence  to  live  and  work  and  deal 
with  them.  ^"^ 

What  I  felt  chiefly.  I  think,  was  that  the  old  temptation 
would  neve-  master  me  again.  I  had  been  face  to  face 
^th  It.  and  hadn  t  submitted  to  its  spell.  Something 
had  been  healed  m  me;  something  had  been  outgrown 
A  simple  old  man  with  no  eloquence  but  that  of  his 
affection  had  led  ,me  as  another  might   be  led   by  a 

With  this  sense  of  release  came  a  sense  of  energy  I 
was  given  badk  to  my  mission;  my  mission  was  given 
back  to  me.  That  which  for  lack  of  a  more  humble  Term 
1  can  only  call  the  spirit  of  consecration  took  hold  of  me 
again  and  made  me  its  own.  The  aims  for  which  the  war 
was  being  fought  were  my  aims;  I  had  no  others.  When 
these  objectives  were  won  my  life,  it  seemed  to  me,  would 
be  over.  It  would  melt  away  i„  that  victory  Z  dawn 
mto  sunnse.  It  would  not  be  lost;  it  would  only  be 
absorbed— a  spark  in  the  blaze  of  noonday 

And  as  for  love-well,  after  all.  there  was  the  mora- 
tonum  of  love.  My  lot  in  this  respect-if  it  was  to  be 
my  lot-would  be  no  harder  than  that  of  millions  of  other 
men  the  wide  world  over.  Love  was  no  longer  the  first 
.  '  """.'  considerations,  not  any  more  than  the  earn- 
ing of  a  living  could  be  the  first.  It  might  be  a  higher 
thmg  for  her-a  higher  thing  for  m^to  give  it  up.  ^ 

Turning  these  things  over  in  my  mind  and  wondering 
vaguely  what  might  be  awaiting  me  at  the  apartment! 
I  said  nothing  to  Lovey  as  we  trundled  homeward  in  a 
taxicab;  .nor  did  Lovey  say  anything  to  me. 

Xt  was  only  when  we  got  out  of  the  lift  and  he  had 
turned  the  key  in  our  own  door  that  he  said,  with  sudden 
3SI 


M 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

■energy:  "Slim,  I'll  be  yet  servant  right  down  to  the 
very  ground." 

"Oh  no,  you  won't  be,  Lovey,"  I  returned,  deprecat- 
ingly.  "We're  fella*  together.  We're  buddies.  We'll 
be  buddies  as  long  as  we  live." 

He  slapped  his  leg  with  a  cackle  that  was,  as  nearly 
as  his  old  lungs  could  make  it,  a  heartfelt,  mirthful  laugh. 

"There!  Didn't  I  tell  you?  That's  what  I've  been 
a-waitin'  for;  and  the  Lord  has  give  it  to  me  at  last. 
He  can't  do  much  more  for  me  now — not  till  He  takes 
me  'ome,  like."  He  raised  his  sharp  profile  and  sniffed. 
"I  smell  it,  Slim— a  kind  o'  stuffy  smell  it  is  now— but  I 
ain't  mistook  in  it.  And  now,  Slim,"  he  went  on,  trium- 
phantly, as  he  threw  the  door  open  and  entered  before 
me  to  turn  on  the  lights — "and  now.  Slim,  what  you're 
a-waitin'  for  is — is  waitin'  'ere  for  you." 

1  knew  it  couldn't  be  Regina  that  Lovey  was  caging  in 
these  overheated  rooms,  since  she  wouldn't  be  sitting  in 
the  dark. 


ia>i«aaM 


Pl-I 


CHAPTER  XXFIH 


TT  was  not  Regina  Barry  who  was  waiting  for  me.  but 

*  It  was  the  next  best  thing. 

Lovey  stood  off  and  pointed  to  it  as  it  lay,  white  and 
oblong,  on  the  sitting-room  table. 
''Give  it  to  me  with  'er  own  'and."  he  said,  mysteriously. 
Druv  up  to  .  c  door  and  asked  the  janitor  to  call  me 
down.  Tola  n;e  to  tell  you  that  it  wouldn't  be  at  'alf 
past  four,  as  she  says  in  the  note,  but  at  five,  and  'oped 
you  wouldn't  keep  'er  waitin'." 

I  held  it  in  my  hand,  turning  it  over.  I  felt  sure  of 
what  was  m  it,  but  I  didn't  know  whether  I  was  sorry  or 
glad.  Of  course  I  should  be  glad  from  one  point  of  view; 
but  the  pomts  of  view  were  so  many.  It  would  be  all 
oirer  now  with  the  mission,  for  which  my  enthusiasm  had 
so  suddenly  revived.  When  we  had  done  this  thing  we 
should  be  discredited  and  ostracized  by  the  people  we 
knew  best,  and  for  some  time  to  come. 

I  stood  fingering  the  thing,  feeling  as  I  had  felt  now 
and  then  when  we  had  given  up  a  trench  or  a  vantage- 
pomt  we  had  been  holding  against  odds.  Wise  as  it 
might  be  to  yield,  it  was.  nevertheless,  a  pity,  and  only 
left  ground  that  would  have  to  be  regained.  There  was 
moral  strength,  toe.  in  the  mere  fact  of  holding.  Not 
to  hold  any  longer  was  a  sign  of  weakness,  however  good 
the  reason. 

I  broke  the  seal  slowly,  saying,  as  I  did  so,  "Did  she 
»«y  where  r* 

353 


II 

., 

THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

"No,  Slim;  she  didn't  say  nowhere." 
"Only  that  I  was  not  to  keep  her  waiting." 
He  thought  again.    "Punctual  was  'er  word." 
She  needn't,  however,  have  said  that.    Of  course  I 
should  be  punctual.    All  mi^t  depend  on  my  being  on 
the  spot  at  the  moment  when  the  clock  struck.    I  stQl 
hesitated  at  drawing  out  the  sheet.    As  a  matter  of  fact 
I  was  wondering  if  she  had  received  the  sign  she  had  talked 
about,  and  if  so,  what  it  was. 
After  all,  it  was  an  unimportant  note. 

Dear  Frank,  —  Mother  has  allowed  me  to  ask  Doctor 
Feltring — a  Udy--who  retreated  with  the  Serbian  Army  into 
Albania,  to  speak  at  our  hp"se  at  half-past  four  to-morrow 
afternoon.    Will  you  comet     V^e  shall  all  be  glad  to  see  you. 

Yours,  Recina. 

That  was  all.  I  should  have  felt  a  certain  relief  that 
nothing  was  irrevocably  settled  had  there  not  been  in  the 
envelope  another  page.  On  it  were  written  the  words: 
"Are  you  trying  the  indirect  method?  If  so,  I  think 
you  will  find  it  unwise." 

If  I  read  this  once  I  must  have  read  it  twenty  times, 
trying  to  fathom  its  meaning. 

I  could  only  think  that  she  was  gently  charging  me 
with  my  apathy.  The  indirect  method  was  the  inactive 
method.  I  had  let  weeks  go  by  not  only  without  saying 
the  word  which  she  had  told  me  she  would  obey,  but 
without  making  any  attempt  to  get  speech  with  her. 

And  yet  it  seemed  to  me  that  any  other  woman  in  the 
world  might  have  resented  this  but  Regina.  It  was  a 
kind  of  resentment  unlike  her.  She  was  too  proud,  too 
intense.  Even  in  the  hypnotic  state  induced  by  the 
knowledge,  after  years  of  doubt,  that  we  cared  for  each 
3S4 


THE   CITY   OF  COMRADES 

other,  she  had  kept  Ijer  power  of  resistance.  She  would 
come  with  me  if  I  made  her,  but  she  hoped  I  wouldn't 
make  her.  That  hope  made  it  difficult  for  me  to  impose 
myself  on  any  one  at  once  so  willing  and  so  reluctant. 
Of  what,  from  different  angles,  each  of  us  owed  to  Can- 
tyre— not  to  mention  any  one  else— she  was  as  sensitively 
aware  as  I  was. 

I  could  hardly  believe,  therefore,  that  she  was  reproach- 
ing me;  and  yet  what  else  did  she  mean? 

I  tried  to  learn  that  on  the  following  day,  but  found 
access  to  her  difficult.  Since  she  was  hostess  to  the 
speaker  of  the  afternoon  as  well  as  to  some  sixty  or 
eighty  guests,  mostly  ladies,  this  was  scarcely  strange. 
I  was  limited,  therefore,  to  the  two  or  three  seconds 
during  which  I  was  placing  in  her  hands  a  cup  of  tea. 
Even  then  there  was  a  subject  as  to  which  I  more  press- 
mgly  desired  information. 

"I  see  Stephen  isn't  here." 

She  couldn't  keep  out  of  her  eyes  what  I  read  as  a  kind 
of  crossfire,  expressive  of  contradictory  emotions. 

"He  wouldn't  come." 

"Why  not?" 

"He  didn't  like  the  subject." 

"Because  it  was  medicine?" 

"Because  it  was  war." 

"But  if  this  country  goes  in?" 

"He  doesn't  believe  it  will.  He  thinks  the  breaking  off 
of  our  relations  with  Germany  wiU  do  all  for  which  we 
can  be  called  on.  We'll  never  fight,  he  says.  Even  if  we 
declare  war  he's  sure  it  will  only  be  in  name." 

I  was  not  so  much  interested  in  Cantyre's  opinions  as 
in  the  way  in  which  she  would  take  them. 

"And  you?" 

3SS 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 


r^ 


"Oil,  I  think  he's  only  kicking  against  the  pricks.  H* 
can't  think  like  that." 

I  gave  her  a  look  which  I  tried  to  make  significant. 
'"You  mean  that  he's  taking  the  indirect  method?" 

She  gazed  off  to  the  other  side  of  the  room.  "Oh, 
that  isn't  the  indirect  method." 

"What  does  the  indirect  method  involve?" 

But  here  Mrs.  Endsleigh  Jarrott  butted  in — I  have  no 
other  term  for  it — ^with  a  question,  which  she  asked  as 
if  her  life  depended  on  the  answer,  "Regina,  didn't  you 
think  the  action  of  that  English  nurse  in  going  over  the 
mountains  with  the  band  of  little  Serbian  boys  the  most 
heroic  thing  you  ever  heard  of?" 

So  I  came  away  without  having  learned  what  it  was  I 
was  doing,  but  not  less  determined  to  find  out. 

I  resolved  to  try  Cantyre.  My  meetings  with  him  had 
become  not  exactly  rare,  but  certainly  infrequent.  I 
had  hardly  noticed  the  decline  of  our  intimacy  while  it 
was  going  on;  I  only  came  to  a  sudden  realization  of  it 
when  I  said  to  myself  I  would  look  in  on  him  that  night. 

It  occurred  to  me  in  the  first  place  that  I  had  not 
looked  in  on  him  of  my  own  accord  since  I  had  come 
home.  I  had  gone  round  the  elbow  of  the  corridor  once 
or  t?yice  when  he  had  invited  me,  but  never  of  my  own 
initiative.  Then  it  struck  me  that  it  was  some  rime 
'since  he  himself  had  come  knocking  at  my  door. 

"Lovey,  when  was  the  doctor  last  in  here?" 

He  was  in  the  "kitchingette"  and  came  to  the  thresh- 
old slowly.  When  he  did  so  there  was  that  scared  look 
on  his  face  I  had  seen  on  the  previous  afternoon. 

"I  don't  rightly  know,  Slim." 

"Isn't  it  more  than  a  week  ago?" 

He  considered.    "It  might  be." 
3S6 


•ailJts 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 
"Do  you  know  any  reaton  why  he  docin't  come?" 
He  seemed  to  be  defending  hinwelf  asain*t  an  ac- 
ciuation. 
I'Why,  Sliml    'Ow  «h'd  I  know?" 

"u^""'.'"'"  "*  '*'"'  '"^"^  day— in  and  out  «rf  hit  room 
Wrth  his  boots  and  things." 

"He  don't  'ardly  ever  speak  to  me." 

"And  don't  you  ever  speak  to  him?" 

He  fidgeted  nervously.  "Oh,  I  passes  the  time  o'  day. 
like,  and  tells  him  if  his  pants  need  pressin'  and  IMe 
thmgs  like  that." 

"Does  he  ever  say  anything  about  me?" 

"Not  lately  he  don't." 

"Have  you  any  idea  why  not?" 

"I  might  'ave  a  hidea.  Slim;  but  what's  servants' 
gossip,  after  all?" 

As  he  had  me  there  I  dropped  the  subject,  stealing 
round  to  Cantyre's  quarters  about  elevea  that  night. 

To  my  knock,  which  was  timid  and  self-conscious,  he 
responded  with  a  low  "Come  in"  that  lacked  the  hearti- 
ness to  which  he  had  accustomed  me.  As  usual  at  this 
hour,  he  was  in  an  elaborate  dressing-gown,  and  also  as 
usual  the  room  was  heavy  with  the  scent  of  flowers.  He 
was  not  lounging  in  an  arm-chair,  but  sitting  at  his  desk 
with  his  back  to  me.  Writing  checks. 

j'Oh,  it's  you!"  he  said,  without  turning  his  head. 

"Thought  I'd  drop  in  on  you." 

He  went  on  writing.    "Do  you  want  to  sit  down?" 

"Not  if  you're  busy." 

"Got  some  bills  to  pay." 

'Gh,  then  I'll  come  another  time." 

Having  gone  in  for  one  bit  of  information,  I  went  out 
with  another.    Cantyre  knew. 
357 


til? 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

I  wu  not  only  «orry  for  hi*  knowing,  I  wa»  turprited 
«t  it.  Duting  the  two  months  we  had  been  in  New  York 
both  Regina  and  I  had  been  notably  discreet.  We  had 
beoi  di'creet  for  the  reasons  that  all  the  strings  were  in 
our  own  hands,  and  it  depended  solely  on  ourselves  as 
to  which  we  pulled.  We  alone  were  the  responsible 
parties.  That  poor  Cantyre  shouldn't  have  to  suffer 
before  we  knew  wt-tthet  we  meant  to  make  him  suffer 
or  not  had  beeh  a  :natter  of  concern  to  us  both. 

Ifheknew,  itwa^  hercfore,  not  from  me;  and  neither 
was  it  from  Regi  >.  i  here  remained  Annette,  but  she 
was  as  safe  as  our  i'lves.  Further  than  Annette  I  couldn't 
think  of  any  one. 

I  should  have  been  more  absorbed  by  this  question 
ftad  I  not  waked  tq  new  elements  in  the  world  drama,  as 
one  wakes  to  a  sudden  change  in  the  weather.  My  sur- 
prise came  not  from  any  knowledge  of  new  facts,  but  from 
the  revival  of  my  own  faculty  for  putting  two  and  two 
together.  There  had  been  a  month  in  which  depression 
had  produced  a  kind  of  mental  hibernation.  When  at 
the  end  of  February  I  emerged  from  it  the  New  World  in 
particular  had  moved  immeasurably  far  forward. 

Now  that  I  came  to  notice  it,  I  saw  a  change  as  per- 
ceptible as  that  in  the  wind  in  the  whole  American 
national  position.  As  silently  as  the  wind  shifts  to  a  new 
point  of  the  compass  a  hundred  millions  of  people  had 
shifted  their  point  of  view.  They  were  moving  it  onward 
day  by  day,  with  a  rapidity  of  which  they  themselves 
were  unconscious. 

The  titanic  facts  were  to  the  undercurrent  of  events 

but  as  the  volcano  to  the  fire  at  the  heart  of  the  earth. 

The  heart  of  all  human  life  being  now  ablaze,  there  was 

Jiere  and  there  a  stupendous  outburst  which  was  but  a 

358 


THE   CITY  OF  COMFIADES 

•ymptom  of  the  raging  Bame  beneath.  TTiere  wag  the 
U-boat  blockade  of  Great  Britain,  endangering  all  the 
maritime  nations  of  the  world.  There  wai  the  American 
diplomatic  break  with  Germany.  There  was  the  guard- 
ing of  the  German  ships  interned  in  American  ports. 
V"?  r"  *•"  *°'P«<J<»«>«  of  an  American  steamer  off 
the  SciUy  Isles.  There  was  Mr.  Wilson's  invitation  to 
the  neutral  nations  to  join  him  in  the  breach  with  the 
Oerman  Emperor.  And  then  on  the  26th  the  President 
went  in  person  before  Congress  to  ask  authority  to  use 
armed  force  to  protect  American  rights. 

These,  I  say,  wer.  but  volcanic  incidena.  The  im- 
pressive thing  to  me  was  the  transformation  of  a  people 
by  a  process  as  subtle  as  enchantment. 

Two  months  earlier  they  had  been  neutral,  and  sitting 
tight  on  their  neutrality.  The  war  was  three  thousand 
niiles  away.  It  had  been  brewed  in  the  cursed  vendettas 
of  nations  of  some  of  which  the  every-day  American 
hardly  knew  the  names.  It  was  tragic  for  those  peoples; 
but  they  whose  lives  were  poisoned  by  no  hereditary 
venom  were  not  caHed  on  to  take  part.  Zebulun  and 
Naphtah  from  sheer  geographical  position  might  be  ob- 
liged to  hazard  their  lives  to  the  death;  but  Asher  could 
abide  in  his  ports,  and  Gilead  beyond  Jordan.  That  had 
been  the  kind  of  reasoning  I  heard  as  late  as  the  time  of 
my  arrival. 

On  my  return  to  New  York  in  November,  I  found  a 
nation  holding  its  judgments  and  energies  in  suspense. 
What  by  the  end  of  February  interested  me  most  was 
the  spectacle  of  this  same  people  urging  forward,  surging 
upward,  striving,  straining  toward  a  goal  which  every 
one  knew  it  would  take  strength  and  sacrifice  to  reach- 
Between  this  approach  to  war  and  that  of  any  of  the 
359 


m 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

other  great  powen  there  wm  thw  difference:  They  had 
taken  the  inevitable  ftep  while  in  the  grip  of  a  great 
ttreM.  They  iprang  to  dieir  armt  overnight.  They  had 
no  more  choice  than  a  man  whote  house  it  on  fire  ai  to 
whether  or  not  he  will  extinguiih  it.  Out  of  the  bed  of 
their  luxurious  existence  they  were  called  as  if  by  con- 
flagration. Whether  they  would  lose  their  lives  or  es- 
cape with  them  was  a  question  they  had  no  time  to 
consider.  They  went  up  to  the  top  notch  of  the  heroic 
in  an  instant,  not  knowing  the  danger  they  were  facing 
or  the  courage  they  displayed. 

Here,  on  the  other  hand,  was  a  people  who  saw  every- 
thing from  a  long  way  off.     For  nearly  three  years  their 
souls  had  been  sickened  with  the  tale  of  blood.    Gilead 
might  abide  beyond  Jordan  and  Asher  in  his  ports,  but 
no  atrocious  detail  had  been  spared  them.    They  knew, 
therefore,  just  what  they  were  doing,  exactly  what  was 
before  them.     I  can  hardly  say  that  they  made  their 
choice;  they  grew  toward  it.    They  grew  toward  it  calm- 
ly, deliberately,  clear-sightedly;  and  for  this  very  reason 
with  an  incomparable  bravery.    If  I  were  an  American 
citizen  instead  of  the  American  citizen's  blood-brother, 
I  might  not  say  this;  I  might  not  have  been  aware  of  it. 
In  any  family  the  outsider  can  see  that  which  escapes 
the  observation  of  the  daughter  or  the  son.    I  heard  no 
bom  American  comment  on  this  splendid,  tranquil,  leis- 
urely readjustment  of  the  spirit  to  a  new,  herculean 
task;   perhaps  no  bom  American  noticed  it;   but  to  me 
as  an  onlooker,  interested  and  yet  detached,  it  was  one 
of  the  most  grand  ose  movements  of  an  epoch  in  which 
the  repetition  of  the  grandiose  bewilders  the  sense  of 
proportion,  as  on  the  first  days  in  the  Selkirks  or  the 

Alps. 

360 


THE   CITY  OP  COMRADES 

mlL7Z  "-Jjl"  *^  ^  '"'"'  *••«  ^•«^»«  ^"  •«Jdre..ing 
meeting.  They  weie  women',  club  meeting.,  and  I 
learned  trom  Annette  that  .he  wa.  .peaking  with  .uccew. 

Annette  obwrved  of  her,  uiing  the  word  I  had  u^d  my- 
•elf.  Ever  ,mce  .he  came  home  .he',  been  like  a  girl 
walkmg  w  her  .leep.    Now  .he',  waked  and  i.  like  her 

it  niT  ^"""*\^"'7  •"?  ""'y-  °'  P»"  of  it.  I  thought 
It  no  harni  to  a.k,  "To  what  do  you  attribute  it?" 

But  Annette  refu.ed  to  lend  her,elf  to  my  game. 
I  attnbute  it  to  her  getting  over  the  long  ttrain.     It', 
natural  that  you  people  who've  been  over  there  .hould 
be  dazed  or  jumpy  or  .omething.    She',  been  dazed." 
And  what  do  you  think  I've  been?" 

"Oh,  you've  been  the  .ame,"  .he  lauithed;  "but  then, 
you're  alway.  queer."  «  mcD, 

24 


itaocon  (BwuTioN  tbi  chart 

(ANSI  ond  ISO  TEST  CHART  No.  2) 


121 


IB 


1^ 
2.2 

2.0 


1^    1^     1^ 


A 


APPLIED  IIVHGE    Ine 

1G5J  East  Main   StraM 

Roch«ter,   N«.  York         14609       US* 

(716)  482  -  0300  -  'hone 

(716)  2Ba-59B9-Fo» 


CBAPTER  XXIX 


Jl* 

H^S./.: 

nSB^'ii' ' 

K 

THE  newi  with  regard  to  Regina  acted  on  me  at  a 
twofold  itiniulus. 
In  the  first  place,  it  sent  me  back  at  last  to  the  Down 
and  Out.  If  she  had  waked,  I,  too,  would  wake;  and 
since  she  was  actively  pleading  the  great  cause,  I  would 
do  the  same.  I  didp't  go  to  a  meeting,  but  dropped  in 
during  a  forenoon.  The  house  was  even  humbler  and 
dingier  than  I  remembered  it,  but  as  scrupulously  neat 
and  clean.  In  the  back  sitting-room  were  half  a  doaen 
men,  all  of  the  type  to  which  I  had  once  belonged  and 
with  whom  I  felt  a  sympathy  so  overwhehning  as  to  sur- 
prise myself.  Perhaps  because  I  had  seen  so  much  of 
what  could  be  made  of  human  material  even  when  it  was 
destined  to  be  no  more  than  cannon  fodder  in  the  end, 
I  was  sorry  to  see  this  waste. 

With  one  exception  I  placed  them  as  all  under  thirty. 
They  were  good-looking  fellows  in  the  main,  who  would 
respond  amazingly  to  drill.  After  that  impetus  to  the 
inner  self,  of  which  the  Down  and  Out  had  the  secret, 
plenty  of  work,  a  regular  life,  food,  water,  and  sleep 
would  renew  them  as  the  earth  is  renewed  by  spring. 
No  missionary  ever  longed  to  bring  a  half-dozen  promising 
pagans  into  the  Christian  fold  more  ardently  than  I  to 
see  these  five  or  six  poor  wastrels  transformed  into  fight- 
ing-men. , 

For  the  minute  there  was  no  (*cial  there  but  Uttie 
362 


THE  CITY  OF  COMJIADES 

5p«^er,  whose  bUfs  in  Jife  was  in  opening  the  Pown  and 

Uut  door.    Having  ;ed  me  across  the  empty  front  sitting- 

loom,  he  said,  as  I  stood  in  the  gap  of  the  folding^oo«: 

Say.  brother,!    This  is  Slim.    Come  in  here  four  or 

«  himTowT  '""  "  '""  ^^  "  '"y  "^  y""'  ^^  '~k 
I  did  feel  enormously  tall,  in  spite  of  the  high  studding 
of  the  room,  as  well  as  enormously  big  in  my  ample  mUi- 
tary  overcoat.  To  the  six  who  sat  in  that  worful  out- 
ward  idleness,  of  wh.ch  I  knew  the  imier  secret  .Preoccu- 
pation, I  must  have  been  an  atonishing  apparition.  Only 
a  very  commanding  presence  could  summon  these  men 
from  the  desolate  land  into  which  their  spirits  were  wan- 
denng;  but  for  once  in  my  life  I  did  it.  All  eyes  wet« 
Jixed  on  me;  every  jaw  dropped  in  a  kind  of  awe. 

Knowing  the  habits  and  needs  of  such  a  stupor,  I  mere- 
ly  threw  off  my  overcoat,  entered,  and  sat  down.  Any 
greeting  I  made  was  general  and  offhand.  Apart  from 
that  I  sat  and  said  nothing. 

ruL"*  ^^  ">;!  n^Wng  because  I  knew  it  was  what  they 
hked.  They  liked  the  companionship,  as  babies  and 
dogs  like  companionship,  though  their  aching  minds  could 
not  have  responded  to  talk.  There  was  no  embarrass- 
ment m  this  sUence,  no  expectation.  It  was  a  stupefied 
pleasure  to  them  to  stare  at  the  uniform,  to  speculate 
mchoately  as  to  the  patch  on  my  eye;  and  that  little  was 
enough. 

Nobody  read;  nobody  smoked.  I  neither  smoked  nor 
read;  I  only  sat  as  in  a  Quaker  meeting,  waiting  for  the 
nrst  movement  of  the  spirit. 

It  came  when  a  husky  voice,  that  seemed  to  travel 
from  across  a  gulf,  said,  without  any  particular  reason, 

1  m  Spud. 

363 


\  I 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

I  turned  to  my  right,  to  see  a  good-looking,  brown- 
%yed  fellow,  of  perhaps  twenty-eight,  trying  to  reach  me, 
a.1  It  were,  with  his  pathetic,  despairing  gaze. 

I  knew  what  was  behind  this  self-introduction.  The 
lost  identity  was  trying  to  find  itself;  the  man  who  was 
worthy  of  something  was  doing  his  utmost  to  get  out  of 
the  abyss  by  reaching  up  his  hands  <  ->  the  man  who  had 
got  out. 

"All  right.  Spud,"  I  said,  heartily.  "Put  it  therel 
We're  going  to  be  friends." 

Silc  ."  .or  another  five  minutes  was  broken  when  a  high 
■voice  .ecited  in  a  sort  of  litany,  "I'm  Jimmy  McKeever, 
traveler  for  Grubbe  &  Oates,  gents'  furnishers." 

Sharp-faced,  wiry,  catlike,  agile,  tough  as  wire,  I  could 
see  this  fellow  creeping  out  into  the  darkness  of  No  Man's 
Land,  and  creeping  back  with  information  of  the  enemy. 

I  broke  in  on  the  litany  to  say:  "Good  for  you,  Jimmy, 
old  boy!    Glad  to  know  you.    Let's  shake  hands." 

He  sprang  from  his  seat  on  the  outskirts  of  the  group, 
but  before  he  could  reach  me  a  great,  brawny  paw  was 
stretched  forward  by  a  blue-eyed  young  Hercules  sitting 
nearer  me,  which  grasped  my  fingers  as  if  in  a  vise.  There 
was  then  a  scramble  of  handshaking,  each  of  the  bunch 
asserting  his  claim  for  recognition,  like  very  small  chil- 
dren. The  older  man  alone  held  aloof,  sitting  by  himself, 
scowling,  hard-faced,  cross-legged,  kicking  out  a  big  foot 
with  a  rapid,  nervous  rhythm. 

It  was  he  who,  when  the  handshaking  was  over,  snarled 
out  the  question,  "What's  the  matter  with  your  eye?" 

I  told  them  the  story  of  how  I  lost  it. 

I  told  it  as  simply  as  I  could,  while  working  in  a  fair 
share  of  the  strong  color  which  I  hoped  would  arrest  their 
attention. 

364 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

teaman.    IthJmJu  ^''y  *°  a  boy  and  a  boy 

«  what  we  nlvXte'a^Tbe-S  "L^l  °"  °' 

WehaveseenV™u.hdlgrheTorofma:  ""*"  °'  ''"• 


I  I: 


THE   GITY   OF   COMRADES 

plane  ctQl — a  plane  on  which  the  miglity  works  that  an 
now  wrought  in  war  will  become  feasible  in  peace.  We 
are  not  on  that  plane  yet;  but  if  the  advance  of  the 
human  race  means  anything  we  shall  get  there.  It  may 
take  a  thousand  years;  it  may  take  more;  it  may  take 
less;  but  in  the  mean  time  we  must  seize  our  blessings  at 
we  may. 

So  these  fellows  listened  to  my  tale  as  raptly  as  if  a 
trumpet  were  sounding  in  their  ears.  Tt  was  like  a  sum- 
mons to  them  to  come  out  of  stupefaction.  They  asked 
questions  not  only  as  to  my  own  experiences,  but  as  to 
the  causes  and  purposes  of  the  war  in  general.  I  do  not 
affirm  that  they  were  the  most  intelligent  questions  that 
could  be  asked;  but  for  men  in  their  condition  they  were 
astonishing. 

That  they  were  not  of  necessity  to  be  easy  converts  I 
could  see  when  the  cid  chap  sitting  apart  asked  again,  in 
his  bitter  voice,  "Did  you  ever  kill  a  fellow-creetur  that 
had  the  same  right  to  iive  as  yourself?" 

As  we  discussed  that  aspect  of  the  subject,  too,  I  found 
it  difficult  to  restrain  my  audience  from  the  free  fight  for 
which  at  the  Down  and  Out  there  was  always  an  in- 
clination. 

I  accomplished  this,  however,  and  as  I  rose  to  go  the 
brawny  Hercules  sidled  shyly  up  to  me  with  the  words: 
"Say!  I'm  a  Canuck.  Peterfield,  Ontario,  is  where  I 
hail  from.    Why  ain't  I  in  this  here  war?" 

He  was  my  first  recruit.  A  few  weeks  later  he  was  in 
uniform  in  Montreal.  My  object  in  telling  you  about 
him  is  to  point  out  the  fact  that  I  made  a  beginning,  and 
that  from  the  beginning  the  sympathy  of  the  City  of 
Comrades  upheld  me.  Little  by  little  that  movement 
by  which  the  whole  of  America  was  being  shaken  out  of  its 
366 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

ChZ-  *'"•!.'"  '"  ".  "'•'"  *''*  *'■'"*  ^m'^."  Andrew 

thl  .i  ,  ^««"  "It'"*  with  the  men  one  day.  "One  of 
the  great  mistakes  .nan  impatience  makes  is  in  mrin« 
to  hurnr  the  meth<      by  which  the  divine  mind  counte"? 

trir""  '"°"  .^'  '"^8"  *"  «  «  "°t  for  us  to 
know  the  times  or  the  seasons  that  the  Father  hath  put 
mto  His  own  power.  Things  that  take  place  in  thd! 
own  way  generally  take  place  in  His.  And  the  oveT 
rulwg  force  of  His  way.  when  we  let  it  alone.  woS 
«n>ply.  naturally,  and  as  a  matterofcou.se.  is  ;nrof  ^e 
extraordmary  features  of  history." 

reasoTtht'r""  TT'^  ^^  '^''^  'I"'"  ^""J^  f"'  the 
reason  that  I  saw  that  he.  too.  was  one  of  the  Americans 

one  I  had  seen  smce  my  return  was  more  changed  in  this 

f^ni  ''     '  "^"'°"  °f  °*''''  ">«  f'on,  drink.    I 

found  a  man  marvelously  broadened,  heightened,  illu' 
mmed.  almost  transfigured  by  a  larger  set  of  purposes. 
But  he  spoke  so  calmly  1  f    f     »• 

"We  shall  go  into  this  thing  the  mote  thoroughly  when 
our  people  as  a  whole  are  convinced  of  its   necessity 

how  a  Lt  *«?*•    B"t  even  there  you  can  see 

how  a  great  puipose  «  changing  them  almost  against 

their  own  will.    It  isn't  many  months  ago  that  th^ 

367  ' 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

**^.'**u  P'^M«"  «»  the  tlocan.  'He  kept  ui  out  of 
war.  Had  it  not  been  for  that  slogan  it't  doubtful 
whether  or  not  he  would  have  been  elected.  AU  politics 
apart,  we  can  tay  that,  had  he  not  been  elected,  it't 
doubtful  whether  any  other  candidate  could  carry  with 
him  a  united  Congress  when  we  come  to  the  moment  of 
decisiwi.  Were  the  President  not  to  have  a  united  Con- 
gress, behind  him.  there  would  be  no  united  people.  As 
It  is  we're  aU  foiiging  forward  together,  President,  Con- 
gress, and  people,  as  surely  as  winter  foiges  forward  into 
spring;  and  when  the  minute  arrives—" 

He  broke  off  with  a  smile  I  can  only  call  exalted.  With 
a  hasty  pressure  of  my  hand  he  was  off  to  some  other  fel- 
low with  some  other  needful  word. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

tA\  r"?*f  '"  '?."'"«  y°"  »"  *•"■»  "  to  show  you  why 
airect  method.  Though  my  curiosity  as  to  what  she 
meant  was  keen  enough,  the  P'essure  of  otherl„tere,ts 

^tTaclc"  nToT  '°  ""'•  ,™'  "  »°  "y-  -  -"  » 
fT™.?.  the  current  of  great  events  personal  con- 

cerns  became  relauvely  unimportant.    They  had  to  w^k 

B,.J7     "^'^  u'  ';=""""y  *°  ^««P  them  waiting 
But  toward  the  middle  of  March  I  met  her  one  iay  in 
Frfth  Avenue.    Even  from  a  distance  I  could  see  that  hlr 

To  mlr%  ?^"'  •"""*«  «  was  the  old  one 

yIXT^"    "'  "^''"""ion  was:  "How  well  you  Ck\ 
You  re  almost  as  you  were  before  the  war." 

from  2       '''*  "T""""  °^  '  P'"'8  at  seeing  her  so  far 
from  pmmg  away,  I  endeavored  to  play  up. 

<i\:T  'J/'^.*!;.t  '"'"*  °^  y°"'    What-s  done  it?" 
She  laughed.     "Oh,  I  don't  know     Wort    T 

-and  the  knowledge  that  things  arrmarTw^g."  """"'' 
i  hear  you  re  very  busy." 
"I  hear  you're  busy,  too." 
j^'P«.ple  do  seem  to  want  to  be  told  thing,  ,t  first 

"I  find  the  same." 

369 


ii 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

"And  10  one  ha*  to  be  on  the  job." 

"There's  nothing  like  it,  is  there?  It"— the  flung  me 
one  of  her  old,  quick,  daring  glances— "it  fills  all  the 
needs.    Nothing  else  becomes  urgent." 

"You  mean  that  one's  personal  affairs — " 

"Oh,  one  has  no  personal  affairs.  J  remember  a  man 
who  was  in  the  San  Francisco  earthquake  telling  me 
that  for  forty-eight  hours  he  hardly  needed  to  cat  or 
deep." 

"I've  seen  that  ^oubled  and  trebled." 

"Of  course  you  have.  It  simply  means  that  when  we 
get  out  of  ourselves  we  can  make  supermen  of  the  com- 
monest material." 

I  ventured  to  tay:  "You  look  happy.  Regina.  Are 
you?" 

"Are  you?" 

I  weighed  this  in  order  to  answer  her  truthfully. 

"If  I'm  not  happy  I'm — I'm  content — content  to  be 
doing  something— the  least  little  bit— to  urge  things  for^ 
ward."  ' 

"And  I  can  say  the  same.  If  I  look  well,  as  you  put 
it,  that's  the  reason.  And  so  long  as  that's  the  reason 
other  things  can— wait."  She  added,  quickly:  "I  must 
go  now  or  I  shall  be  late.  I'm  speaking  to  the  women  at 
the  Mary  Chilton  Qub,  and  I'm  overdue." 

She  had  actually  passed  on  when  I  stopped  her  to  say, 
"What  do  you  mean  by  the  indirect  method?" 

She  called  back  over  her  shoulder,  "Ask  Stephen." 

And  I  asked  him  that  night.  Having  heard  him  come 
into  his  room  between  eight  and  nine  o'diock,  I  marched 
in  boldly,  bearding  him  without  beating  about  the  bush. 

"I  say,  old  Stephen,  what  have  you  been  saying  to 
Regina  about  me?" 

370 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

H»hK  h«J  be.  ,  tfcnnm  on  tl>«  ubk;  hi.  ,nn.  wm 
outttretched  m  Um,  act  of  taking  off  hii  overeoat 

"Naehing  much;   that  meant  •omething.    What  the 
deuce  do  you  mean  by  the  indirect  method?" 
i  haven't  tpoken  of  an  indiiect  method." 
"No;  but  file  hwr 
yh,  I  «ee." 
"Then  if  you  tee,  tell  me  what  it  i«." 

.fe.'  ^u-*t't  *l"  '"•""•  '"  °^  *»^'"8  off  hi.  coat, 
«Aer  which  he  hung  .t  up  •«  a  clo.et.  doing  the  .ame 
with  hi.  hat.    The  mmute'.  delay  allowed  time  for  the 
ttorm-clouds  to  gather  on  hu  face,  and  all  the  passion, 
of  a  gloomy-heaned  nature  to  concenttate  in  «  hot,  thun- 
aery  silence. 
"Is  this  a  bit  of  bluff,  Frank?" 
"Bluff  be  hangedl    I'm  ready  to  .peak  out  frankly." 
llie  Monn-cloud.  ww«  torn  with  »  flaA  like  a  nreak 
of  lightning. 

"Then  why  didn't  you  come  to  me  like  a  mu  inttead 
of  sending  that  sneaking  old  beast—" 
"Kold  on,  Stephen.    What  sneaking  old  beatt  have  I 

"He  woul.  I't  have  comt  unless  you  had  aet  him  on 
mt    You  needn't  teU  me  that." 

I'What  the  deuce  are  you  ta'king  about?" 
You  know  what  I'm  talking  about.  There  hasn't 
been  a  day  since  you  came  back  that  I  haven't  had  a 
nmt.  He  was  not  a  man  to  whom  anger  came  easily: 
he  began  to  choke,  to  strangle  with  the  effort  to  get  hi. 
indignation  out.    "I'd  have  given  him  the  toe  of  mv 


' 


I! 

ij  i 


1 


I 


■MHIimilH    i 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

boot  long  ago  if-if-jf-JT'—tlie  wordi  poiitively  ihi'vi. 
ered  on  hit  lipt— "if— if—if  I  hadn't  wanted  to  lee  how 
far  you'd  go;  and,  by  God  I  I've— I've  had  enough  of  itf' 
"Enough  of  what,  Stephenr  I  endeavoied  to  atk, 
quietly. 

He  knocked  hii  knuckle*  on  the  table  with  a  foite  that 
almost  made  them  bleed. 

"My  name  it  Canty  re— do  you  understand?" 

"Yet,  I  undentaqd.  But  tell  me,  what  it  it  you've 
had  enough  of?" 

"I've  had  enough  of  your  damned  diplomatic  tlynett  ia 
letting  that^ld  reptile  on  mel" 

I  am  not  quick  tempered.  The  tolerar.,.e  bom  of  a 
too  painful  knowledge  of  my  own  shortcomings  oblige* 
me  to  be  slow  to  wrath.  But  when  anger  does  get  hold 
of  me  it  works  a  change  like  that  of  a  powerful  chemical 
agent  suddenly  infused  into  the  blood. 

I  turned  and  ttrode  out.  A  few  timet  in  the  trenche* 
I  had  been  the  victim  of  this  rage  to  kill— and  I  had 
killed.  ^  How  many  I  killed  at  one  time  or  another  I  now 
couldn't  tell  you.  I  taw  too  red  to  keep  the  count  All 
I  know  is  that  I  have  ttuck  my  bayonet  into  heart  after 
heart,  and  have  dashed  out  brains  with  the  butt  end  of 
my  rifle.  It  is  all  red  before  me  still— a  great  splash  of 
blood  on  the  memory. 

But  I  had  got  the  habit.  In  a  rage  like  this  to  kill 
some  one  had  become  an  instinct.  I  could  not  have  be- 
lieved that  the  impulse  would  have  pursued  me  into  dvil 
life;  but  there  it  was. 

Having  flung  open  the  door  of  my  apartment,  I  marched 

straight  for  the  "kitchingette."     Lovey  was  seated  on  a 

stool  beside  the  tiny  gas-range,  polishing  one  of  my  boots. 

The  boot  was  like  a  boxing-glove  ra  his  left  hand,  while 

37a 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

m.'l^il'  ''™*  •'"'*"«'*^  "  •"■•  "Kht.  looking  «p  « 
m.  w.th  the  p„«,u.  .pp.^  of  .  «bbit  pl.adii*f^£ 

d.S  ::f.TJ'„l""  "-^  ^-  -'^.  Hi™.  b«  it 

bled-his  arm.  began  tc     relr^b"  V.";"^:^^^^^^^^ 
tempt  to  defend  himself.  "*  ""  »*- 

caJJo"  ?•""  "°"  ""*"  "^«'"  ^  •>«"««'«»•    "Speak. 
dra^ld^MmTo'ELt'  "'"*^  '^  "•     ''•  «>""  -«« 

,„,Now  are  you  gomg  to  spea^?    Or  .hall  I  ,°:^yo, 
"You'd  kick  me  out,  Slim?" 

•^;Srr;o°i;.5r°'"  •"'''''-'''-• 

^  Ue  brush  and  the  boot  fell  with  a  dull  clatter  to  the 
"Then  I'd  better  go." 

■ng  for  before  he  spied  an  old  gnarled  stick  i^  I  comer 

Sn^-^m"  "  '"  ''"''  '^  '-"^^  ^  -/«- The 

By  the  time  I  had  foUow^l  him  I  was  beginning  to  re- 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

tent.  I  had  not  really  meant  to  have  him  go,  but  I  was 
not  ready  as  yet  to  call  him  back.  What  Cantyre  must 
have  thought  of  me,  what  Regina  must  have  thought  of 
me,  in  egging  so  poor  a  creature  on  to  say  what  I  wouldn't 
say  myself,  roused  me  as  to  a  more  intense  degree  I  used 
to  be  roused  on  hearing  of  Belgian  women  treated  with 
the  last  indignities,  and  Canadian  soldiers  crucified.  Had 
I  stopped  to  consider  I  would  have  seen  that  Regina  didn't 
believe  it,  and  that  Cantyre  believed  it  only  as  far  as 
jt  gave  an  outlet  to  his  complicated  inward  suiFerings; 
but  I  didn't  stop  to  consider.  Perhaps  I,  too,  was  seek- 
ing an  outlet  for  something  repressed.  At  any  rate,  I 
let  the  poor  old  fellow  go. 

"What  about  your  things?"  I  asked,  before  he  had 
reached  the  door. 

He  turned  with  a  certain  dignity.  "I  sha'n't  want  no 
things."  He  added,  however,  "Ye  do  mean  me  to  get  out, 
Slimr 

I  didn't — but  I  didn't  want  to  tell  him  so.  Fury  had 
cooled  down  without  leavine  me  ready  to  retract  what 
I  had  said.  I  meant  to  go  after  him — when  he  had  got 
as  far  as  the  lift — biit  I  meant,  too,  that  he  should  take 
those  few  bleeding  steps  of  anguish. 

He  took  them — not  to  the  lift,  but  out  into  the  vesti- 
bule. Then  I  heard  a  faint  moan;  then  a  sound  as  if 
sometl^nf  broke;  and  then  a  soft  tumbling  to  the 
floor. 

tVhen  I  got  out  he  was  lying  all  >n  a  little  huddled, 
senseless  heap,  with  a  cut  on  his  forehead  wliere  he  had 
struck  the  key  or  the  door-knob  as  he  Tell. 

It  was  more  than  an  hour  before  Cantyre  got  him  back 
to  consciousness;    but  it  was  early  nioming  before  he 
spol^e.    yffi  had  stayed  with  him  through  the  night,  as 
■    ' 374 '■  '" 


THE  CITY  OF   COMRADES 
.urprbe  to  us  '''''  "'"'"*  '^'^  «•»«  »«  a 

what  I  didh't  .ay.  ""^ever,  that  he  guetsed  at 

wa'iuHgt  «  mv  woh'  v''"'  °"*  °^  *""■''  '"««  «•« 
fanher  th!„  the  JiTt"^  W,"  J'T  ""«  '°  '"  ''™  6«t 
now."         "'"""f*-    J-wt  wanted  to  scare  him.    Sorry 

But  Love/s  account  was  different. 

come  back,  won't  you?"  "^  we  same.    You  will 

wie?hf  XrUn^'S^'"  ^""  T'  *'"  -  ''-• 

thi.  hu.do„.rw?^\ru:^-^^^^^^^^^^  of 

JWhars  up.  Slimr  he  asled.  feebly.    "I  ain't  sick, 
a  Sf  ':71^>''''  '°'''  ^"'"  »°*  -J^'  you've  only  had 

»„ir      l'^"'    ^   ^"*"'-    S«"'««'   me  right,   didn't   if?" 

»«» just  a-fnghtenm-  of  Slim.  like.    Kind  o'  fooUsh.  I 
37S 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

WM.    Said  I  was  goin'  to  leave  him.    Didn't  mean  to  go 
no  farther  nor  the  lift." 

"I  didn't  mean  to  let  you  go,  Lovey,"  I  groaned, 
humbly. 

"Of  course  you  didn't!    'Ow  'uld  ye  get  along  without 
me,  I'd  like  to  know  ?    Didn't  I  keep  ye  straight  all  them 
weeks  at  the  Down  and  Out?" 
"You  did,  Lovey." 

"And  'aven't  I  saved  ye  lots  o'  times  since?" 
"You  have,  old  man." 

"I  wouldn't  leave  ye,  not  for  nothink,  Slim.  We're 
buddies  as  long  as  \*e  live,  ain't  we?  Didn't  ye  say  that 
to  me  yerself  ?" 

"I  did,  and  I'll  say  it  again." 

"Well  then,  what's  the  use  o'  talkin'?  You  mustn't 
mind  me,  sonny.  I  may  get  into  a  bad  temper  and  speak 
'arsh  to  you;  but  I  don't  mean  nothink  by  it.  I  wouldn't 
leave  ye,  not  for — 

The  voice  trailed  away,  and  presently  he  was  asleep 
or  unconscious  again,  I  couldn't  be  sure  which. 

Neither  could  I  be  sure  whether  he  believed  this  ver- 
sion of  the  tale  or  whether  he  concocted  it  to  comfort 
me.  At  any  rate,  it  served  its  purpose  in  that  it  eased 
the  situation  outwardly,  enabling  Cantyre  and  me  to 
face  each  other  without  too  much  self-consciousness. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  self-consciousness  had  hardly  em- 
barrassed us  through  the  night.  There  had  been  too 
much  to  think  about  and  to  do.  The  minute  I  had  got 
Lovey  into  the  living-room  and  on  the  couch  I  had  run 
for  Cantyre,  and  he  had  run  back  with  me.  In  the  stress 
of  watching  the  old  man's  struggle  between  life  and  death 
wk  felt  toward  our  personal  relations  what  one  feels  of 
an  exciting  play  after  returning  to  realities.  We  were 
i76 


ij; 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

back  on  the  old  terms;  we  called  each  other  Stephen  and 
Frank.  Only  now  and  then,  when  for  a  half-hour  there 
was  nothing  to  do  but  to  sit  by  the  bed  and  watch,  did 
our  minds  revert  to  the  actual  between  us. 

That  is,  mine  reverted  to  it,  and  I  suppose  his  did  the 
same.  How  he  thought  of  it  I  cannot  tell  you;  but  to 
me  it  seemed  infinitely  trifling.  Here  was  a  dying  man 
whose  half-lighted  spirit  was  standing  on  the  threshold 
of  a  fully  lighted  world.  One  might  have  said  that  the 
radiance  of  the  life  on  which  he  was  entering  already 
shone  in  the  tenderness  that  began  to  dawn  in  the  delicate 
old  face.  It  was  a  face  growing  younger,  as  for  two  or 
three  years  it  had  grown  more  spiritual.  I  saw  that  now 
and  did  justice  to  it  as  something  big.  It  was  on  the 
level  of  big  things;  and  love-afl^airs  between  men  and 
women  were  only  on  the  level  of  the  small. 

And  all  over  the  worid  big  things  of  the  same  sort 
were  takmg  place,  some  in  the  sharp  flash  of  an  instant, 
and  some  as  the  slow  result  of  years.  I  had  seen  so  much 
of  it  with  my  own  eyes  that  I  could  call  up  vision  after 
vision  as  I  sat  alone  in  the  gray  morning,  watching  the 
soft,  sweet  pall  settle  on  the  old  man's  countenance,  while 
Cantyre  took  his  bath. 

Queerly,  out  of  the  unrecorded,  or  out  of  what  I  didn't 
suppose  I  had  recorded,  there  flashed  a  succession  of  pic- 
tures, all  of  them  of  the  big,  the  splendid,  the  worth  while. 
They  came  inconsequently,  without  connection  with  each 
other,  without  connection  that  I  could  see  with  the  mo- 
ment I  was  living  through,  beyond  the  fact  that  they  were 
all  on  the  scale  of  the  big. 

There  was  the  recollection  of  a  khaki-clad  figure  lying 
face  downward  on  a  hillside.    I  approached  him  from  be- 
low, catching  sight  first  of  the  soles  of  the  huge  boot* 
25  377 


THE   CITY   OF   COMRADES 

on  which  he  would  never  wilk  again.  Coming  nearer,  1 
•aw  his  armt  outstretched  above  his  head  and  his  nailt 
dug  into  the  earth.  He  was  bleeding  from  the  ears.  But 
when  I  bent  over  him  to  see  if  he  was  still  alive  he  said, 
almost  roughly: 

"Leave  me  alone!  I  can  get  along  all  nght.  Jepb- 
son's  over  there." 

I  left  him  alone  because  there  was  nothmg  I  could  do 
for  him,  but  when  I  went  to  Jephson  he  was  lying  on  his 
back,  his  knees  drawn  up,  and  his  face  twisted  into  the 
strangest,  most  agonized,  most  heavenly  and  ecstatic 
smile  you  can  imagine  on  a  human  face. 

Then  there  was  a  young  fellow  running  at  the  head  of 
his  platoon,  a  slim  young  fellow  with  flaxen  hair  and  a 
face  like  a  bright  angel's,  who  had  been  a  crack  sprinter 
at  McGill.  He  was  long  after  my  time,  of  course;  but 
I  had  known  his  family,  and  since  being  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  Ypres  I  had  seen  him  from  time  to  time.  He 
was  not  made  for  a  soldier,  but  a  brave  young  soldier  he 
had  become,  surmounting  fear,  repulsion,  and  all  that  was 
hideous  to  a  sensitive  soul  like  his,  and  establishing  those 
relations  with  his  men  that  are  dearer  in  many  ways  than 
ties  of  blood.  The  picture  I  retain,  and  which  came  back 
to  me  now,  is  of  his  running  while  his  men  followed  him. 
It  was  so  common  a  sight  that  ^  would  hardly  have 
watched  it  if  it  had  been  any  one  but  him.  Ana  then, 
for  no  reason  evident  to  me,  just  as  if  it  was  part  of  the 
order  of  the  day,  he  threw  up  his  arms,  tottered  on  a  few 
steps,  and  went  tumbling  in  the  mud,  face  downward. 

With  the  rapidity  of  a  cinema  the  scene  changed  to 

something  else  I  had  witnessed.    It  was  the  day  I  got 

my  dose  of  shrapnel  in  the  foot.    Lying  near  me  was  a 

colonel  named  Blenkins.    Farther  off  there  lay  a  set- 

378 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

eeant  in  hi«  regiment  named  Day.  Day  had  for  Blenkin* 
the  kind  of  admiration  that  often  exists  between  man 
and  officer  for  which  there  is  no  other  name  than  wor- 
ship. Slowly  pamfully.  dying,  the  non-com.  dragged 
_  himself  over  the  scarred  ground  and  laid  his  head  on  the 
dying  colonel  ,  heart.  Painfully,  slowly,  the  dying  col- 
onel s  hand  stole  across  the  dying  non-com.'s  breast;  and 
in  this  embrace  they  slept. 

Other  memories  of  the  sam:  sort  came  back  to  me. 
disconnected,  having  no  reference  to  Lovey,  or  Cantyre. 
or  Regma,  or  the  present,  beyond  the  fact  that  they 
came  out  of  the  great  life  of  which  comradeship  was  a 
token  and  the  watchwords  rang  with  generosity. 

It  was  tKe  world  of  the  moment.  Such  things  as  I 
had  been  recalling  had  happened  that  very  night;  they 
had  happened  that  very  morning;  they  would  happen 
through  that  day,  and  through  the  next  day  and  the 
next— till  their  purpose  was  accomplished.  What  that 
purpose  was  to  be-    But  that  I  was  to  learn  a  little 

I  T''"u- Vu  'T  '  ''"'*  '"^'"  ^  8ot  a  light  on  the  out- 
look  which  has  been  sufficient  for  me  to  walk  by;  but  of 
It  1  will  tell  you  when  the  time  comes. 

For  in  the  mean  time  the  tide  was  rising.  As  Lovey 
lay  smiling  himself  into  heaven  the  national  spirit  wm 
mounting  and  mounting,  quietly,  tensely,  with  excite- 
ment held  in  leash  till  the  day  of  the  Lord  was  very  near 
at  hand.  "^ 

All  through  March  events  had  developed  rapidly.  On 
the  hrst  day  of  that  month  the  government  had  revealed 
Germany  s  attempt  to  stir  up  Mexico  and  Japan  against 
the  United  States.  A  few  days  later  Germany  herself 
had  admitted  the  instigarion.  A  few  days  later  still 
379 


r 


r 


THE   CITY   OF   COMRADES 

Aiittria  had  given  hrr  approval  to  unlimited  submarine 
warfare.  A  few  days  later  still  Nicholas  was  deposed 
in  Petrograd.  The  country  was  marching;  the  v  irld 
was  marching;  the  heart  was  marching.  It  was  difficult 
for  the  mind  to  keep  up  with  the  immensity  of  such  hap- 
penings or  to  appraise  them  at  their  value.  I  do  not 
assert  that  I  so  appraised  them;  I  only  beg  you  to  under- 
stand that  what  I  wanted  and  Cantyre  wanted  and 
Regina  wanted,  each  of  us  for  himself  and  herself,  became 
curiously  insignificai\t. 

Not  that  we  were  working  with  the  same  ends  in  view. 
By  no  means!  Cantyre  was  still  opposed  to  war  as  war, 
and  bitterly  opposed  to  war  if  it  involved  the  United 
States.  That  he  was  kicking  against  the  pricks,^  as 
Regina  asserted,  I  couldn't  see;  but  that  he  was  feeling 
the  whole  situadon  intensely  was  quite  evident. 

The  result,  however,  was  the  same  when  it  came  to 
balancing  personal  interests  against  the  public  weal. 
The  public  weal  might  mean  one  thing  to  him  and  an- 
other thing  to  me,  but  to  us  both  it  overrode  private 
icsentment.  There  was  a  moratorium  of  resentment. 
We  might  revive  it  again;  but  for  the  moment  it  vanished 
out  of  sight. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

I  call  it  famous  because  it  was  3  n.„  r  , 

"re.     In  all  the  club's  h  s  o^Tere  hadT?' J'''*"- 
meeting  for  any  other  DuroosTth^n  t  .      '"''"  » 

up  to  the  cutting  out  of  drt     Ott,     "r  *''r°""8« 

and  we  were  all  afire  '  ""••  ''="'  ""fi*-*  "«. 


, 


'  It 

r 

^ 

1 

p 

1 

1 

iM 

1 

L 

THE   CITY  OF  COMRADES 

Our  fellowi  came  from  all  over  New  York  and  the  lub- 
urbi,  wa»hed  up,  brushed  up,  and  in  their  Sunday  clothes. 
A  few  were  men  of  education,  but  mostly  we  were  of  the 
type  generally  classed  as  hard-working.  In  age  we  ran 
from  the  seventies  down  to  the  twenties,  with  •»  prepon- 
derance of  chaps  between  twenty-five  and  forty. 

What  I  gathered  from  remarks  before  the  meeting 
came  to  order  was  a  dogged  submission  to  leadership. 

"  If  you  was  to  put  it  up  to  us  guys  to  decide  the  whole 
thing  by  ourselves,"  Beady  Lamont  said  to  me  as  we  stood 
together,  "we'd  vote  ag'in'  it.  Why?  Because  we're 
over  here— mindirf  our  own  business— with  our  kids  to 
take  care  of— and  our  business  to  keep  up— and  we  ain't 
got  no  call  to  interfere  in  what's  no  concern  of  ours. 
Them  fellows  over  in  Europe  never  could  keep  still,  and 
they  dunno  how.  But"— he  made  one  of  his  oratorical 
gestures  with  his  big  left  hand— "but  if  the  President 
says  the  word— well,  we're  behind  him.  He's  the  coun- 
try, and  when  the  country  speaks  there's  no  Amur'can 
who  ain't  ready  to  give  all." 

Perhaps  he  had  said  something  similar  to  Andrew 
Christian,  because  it  was  that  point  of  being  ready  to 
give  all  which,  when  he  spoke,  Christian  took  as  his 

text. 

I  am  not  giving  you  an  account  of  the  whole  meeting; 
I  mean  only  to  report  a  little  of  what  Christian  said,  and 
its  e£Fect  upon  Cantyre.  Cantyre  had  come  because  Re- 
gina  had  insisted;  but  he  sat  with  the  atmosphere  of 
hot,  thundery  silence  wrapping  hjm  round. 

"To  be  ready  to  give  all  is  what  the  world  is  sum- 
moned to,"  Christian  declared,  when  he  had  been  asked 
to  say  a  few  words,  "and,  oh,  boys,  1  beg  you  to  beUeve 
that  it's  timel  The  call  hasn't  come  a  minute  too  soon, 
384 


THE  CITY  OF   COMRADES 

and  we  tha'n't  be  a  minute  too  toon  in  getting  ready  to 
obey  it." 

"Some  of  ut  'ain't  got  much  to  give,"  a  voice  came 
from  the  bacic  sitting-room. 

"We've  all  got  everything  there  ii,  if  we  only  under- 
•tood  it,"  Christian  answered,  promptly;  "but  whatever 
we  have,  it's  something  we  hold  dear." 

"If  we  hold  it  dear,"  another  voice  objected,  "why 
should  we  be  asked  to  give  it  up?" 

"  Because  we  haven't  known  how  to  use  it.  Think  of 
all  you've  had  in  your  own  life,  Tom,  and  what  you've 
done  with  it." 

I  didn't  know  what  Tom  had  had  in  his  life,  but  the 
retort  evidently  gave  him  something  to  turn  over  in  his 
mind. 

"There  never  was  a  time  in  the  history  of  the  world," 
Christian  went  on,  "when  the  abundance  of  blessing 
was  more  lavishly  poured  out  upon  mankind.  In  every 
country  in  both  hemispheres  we've  had  the  treasures  of 
the  earth,  the  sea,  and  the  air  positively  heaped  upon  us. 
Food,  clothing,  comfort,  security,  speed— have  become 
the  commonplaces  of  existence.  The  children  of  to-day 
grow  up  to  a  use  of  trains  and  motors  and  telephones  and 
airplanes  that  would  have  seemed  miraculous  as  short  a 
time  ago  as  when  I  was  a  lad.  The  standard  of  living 
has  been  so  quickly  raised  that  the  poor  have  been  living 
in  a  luxury  unknown  to  the  rich  of  two  or  three  generations 
ago.  The  Atlantic  has  got  to  be  so  narrow  that  we 
count  the  time  of  our  crossing  it  by  hours.  The  globe 
has  become  so  small  that  young  people  go  round  it  for 
a  honeymoon.  People  whose  parents  found  it  difficult 
to  keep  one  house  have  two  or  three,  and  even  more. 
There  is  money  everywhere  —  private  fortunes  that 
3«J 


ip 


THE   CITY   OF   COMRADES 

would  have  ttaggered  the  imagination  of  Solomon  and 
the  Queen  of  Sheba  and  Auguitui  and  Charlemagne  all 
combined.  Amusements  are  to  numerous  that  they  pall 
on  us.  In  lots  of  the  restaurants  of  New  York  you  can 
order  a  meal  for  yourself  alone,  and  feel  that  neither 
Napoleon  nor  Queen  Victoria  nor  the  Czar  codd  possibly 
have  sat  down  to  a  better  one." 

"Some  could,"  one  of  our  objectors  declared,  with  all 
sorts  of  implications  in  his  tone. 

"Oh,  I'm  not  saying  there  are  no  inequalities  or  that 
there  is  just  distribution  of  all  this  blessing.  In  fact, 
my  point  is  that  there  is  not.  All  I'm  asserting  is  that 
the  blessing  is  there,  and  that  the  very  windows  of 
heaven  have  been  opened  on  the  world  in  order  to  pour 
it  out." 

"  I  never  saw  none  of  it,"  a  thin,  sour  fellow  put  in, 
laconic-  .y. 

"But,  Juleps,  that's  what  .^'m  coming  to.  The  bless- 
ing was  there,  and  some  of  us  wouldn't  try  to  get  what 
belonged  to  us,  and  others  of  us  collared  too  much,  and 
we  treated  it  very  much  as  children  treat  pennies  in  a 
scramble.  We  did  far  worse  than  that.  We  rifled,  we 
stole,  we  gobbled,  we  guzzled,  we  strutted,  we  bragged; 
the  fellow  that  was  up  kicked  the  fellow  that  was  down  to 
keep  him  down;  the  fellow  that  had  plenty  sneaked  and 
twisted  and  cringed  and  cadged  in  order  to  get  more; 
and  we've  all  worked  together  to  create  the  world  that's 
been  hardly  fit  to  live  in,  that  every  one  of  us  has  known. 
Now,  boys,  isn't  that  so?    Speak  out  frankly." 

Since  in  that  crowd  there  could  not  be  two  opinions  as 
to  the  world  being  hardly  fit  to  live  in,  there  was  a  general 
murmur  of  assent. 

"Now  wealth  is  a  great  good  thing;  and  what  I  mean 
384 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

by  wealth  i*  the  general  storehouie,  free  to  uf  all,  which 
we  call  the  earth  and  the  atmoiphere  round  it.  I  don't 
have  to  tell  you  that  it't  a  ir-irehouie  crammed  in  every 
crack  and  cranny  with  the  t  -igj  you  and  I  need  for  our 
enjoyment.  And  it  isn't  a  storehouie  such  as  you  and  I 
would  fill,  which  has  got  only  what  we  could  put  into  it; 
it's  always  producing  more.  Production  is  its  law.  It'a 
never  idle.  It's  incessantly  working.  The  more  we 
take  out  of  it  the  more  it  yields.  I  don't  say  that  we 
can't  exhaust  it  in  spots  by  taxing  it  too  much;  of  course 
we  can.  Greed  will  exhaust  anything,  just  as  it's  exhaust- 
ing,  under  our  very  eyes,  our  forests,  our  fif  Heries,  and 
our  farms.  But  in  general  there's  nothing  that  will  re- 
spond to  good  treatment  more  surely  than  the  earth,  nor 
give  us  back  n  bigger  interest  on  the  labor  we  put  into  it." 

"That's  so,"  came  from  some  one  who  had  perhap* 
been  a  farmer. 

"And  so,"  Christian  went  on,  "we've  had  a  world 
that's  given  us  everything  in  even  greater  abundance  than 
we  could  use.  We've  had  food  to  waste;  we've  had 
clothes  for  every  shade  of  temperature;  we've  had  coal 
for  our  furnaces,  and  iron  for  our  buildings,  and  steel  for 
our  ships,  and  gasolene  for  our  automobiles.  We've  had 
every  invention  that  could  help  us  to  save  time,  to  save 
worry,  to  save  labor,  to  save  life.  Childhood  has  been 
made  more  healthy;  old  age  more  vigorous.  That  a  race 
of  young  men  and  young  women  has  been  growing  up 
among  us  of  whom  we  can  say  without  much  exaggeration 
that  humanity  is  becoming  godlike,  any  one  can  see  who 
goes  round  our  schools  and  colleges." 

He  took  a  step  forward,  throwing  open  his  palms  in  a 
gesture  of  demand. 

"But,  fellows,  what  good  has  all  this  prodigious  plenty 
38S 


p 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

^bcen  doinc  \ul  Hu  it  made  u«  any  better f  Have  wa 
become  any  more  thankful  that  we  all  had  enough  and 
to  spare  f  Have  we  been  any  more  eager  to  tee  that  when 
we  had  too  much  the  next  man  had  a  sufficiency?  Have 
we  rejoiced  in  this  plenitude  as  the  common  delight  of 
every  one?  Have  we  seen  it  as  the  manifesntion  of  the 
God  who  expresses  Himself  in  all  good  things,  and  Who 
has  given  us,  as  one  of  the  apostles  says,  all  things  richly 
to  enjoy?  Has  it  brought  us  any  nearer  Him?  Has  it 
given  us  any  ncreased  sympathy  with  Him?  Or  have 
we  made  it  minister  to  our  very  lowest  qualities,  to  our 
appetites,  to  our  ineolence,  to  our  extravagance,  to  our 
aheer  pride  that  all  this  was  ours,  to  wallow  in,  to  waste, 
and  to  despise? 

"You  know  we  have  done  the  last.  There  isn't  a  man 
among  us  who  hasn't  done  it  to  a  greater  or  less  degree. 
There  is  hardly  i  man  in  New  York  who  hasn't  lived  in 
the  lust  of  the  purely  material.  You  may  go  through 
the  world  and  only  find  a  rarefied  creature  here  and  there 
who  hasn't  reveled  and  rioted  and  been  silly  and  vain 
and  arrogant  to  the  fullest  extent  that  he  dared." 

The  wee  bye  Daisy  was  sitting  in  the  front  row,  look- 
ing up  at  the  speaker  raptly. 

"I  haven't,  Mr.  Christian,"  he  declared,  virtuously. 

"Then,  Daisy,  you're  the  rarefied  creature  I  said  was 
an  exception.  Most  of  us  have,"  he  went  r.n  when  the 
roar  of  laughter  subsided.  "If  we  haven't  in  one  way 
we  have  in  another.  And  what  has  been  the  result? 
Covetousness,  hatred,  class  rivalry,  capital  and  labor  bit- 
ternesses, war.  And  now  we've  come  to  a  place  where 
by  a  queer  and  ironical  judgment  upon  us  the  struggle 
for  possession  is  going  to  take  from  us  all  that  we  pos- 

•ess." 

386 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

H«  thruft  hi*  hand*  into  hit  trauftn  pocketa  aiMl> 
•poke  casually,  confidentially. 

"For,  boys,  that'i  what  I'm  coming  to.  All  the  good 
thing!  we  have  arc  going  to  be  taken  away  from  ut.  Since 
we  don't  know  how  to  uie  them,  and  won't  learn,  we've 
got  to  give  them  back." 

"Oh,  I  don't  believe  that,  Mr.  Chriitian,"  a  comroon- 
•enie  voice  cried  out  in  a  tone  of  expoitulation. 

"Peter,  you'll  lee.  You'll  only  have  to  live  a  few 
monthi  longer  to  find  yourielf  like  every  one  else  in 
America,  lacking  the  simple  essentials  you've  alwaya. 
taken  as  a  matter  of  course.  It  isn't  luxuries  alone  that 
you'll  be  called  on  to  give  up;  it  will  be  the  common 
necessaries  of  evcry-day  life.  The  great  summons  is  com- 
ing to  us,  not  merely  from  our  government,  not  merely 
frc  m  the  terrified  and  stricken  nations  of  mankind,  but 
from  God  above — to  give  everything  back  to  Him.  I  don't 
say  that  we  shall  starve  or  that  we  shall  freeze;  but  we 
may  easily  be  cold  and  hungry  and  dn  en  to  a  cheese- 
paring economy  we  never  xpcc^ed  to  practise.  The 
light  will  be  taken  from  our  lampr:,  the  work  from  our 
fingers,  the  money  from  our  pockets.  We  shall  be  searched 
to  the  very  soul.  There's  nothing  we  sha'n't  have  to 
surrender.  At  the  very  least  wc  must  give  tithes  of  all 
that  we  possess,  signifying  our  willingness  to  give  more." 

"Some  of  us  'ain't  got  nothing." 

It  was  the  bitter  cry  of  the  dispossessed. 

"Yes,  Billy;  we've  all  got  life;  and  life,  too,  we  shall 
have  to  offer  up.  There  are  some  of  you  chaps  sitting 
here  that  in  all  human  probability  will  be  called  on  to 
do  it." 

"You  won't,  Mr.  Christian.    You're  too  old." 

"Fm  too  old,  Spud,  but  my  two  boys  are  not;   and. 
«»7 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 


they're  getting  ready  now.  Whether  it's  harder  or  easier 
to  let  them  go  rather  than  for  me  to  go  myself  I  leave  to 
any  of  you  guys  that  have  kids." 

"Perhaps  it  won't  be  as  bad  as  what  you  think." 

"Jimmy,  I'm  only  reasoning  from  what  I  see  in  the 
world  already.  When  the  human  race  is  being  trodden 
in  the  wine-press  we  in  America  can't  expect  to  be  spared. 
If  any  of  you  want  to  know  what's  happening  to  the  kind 
of  world  we've  made  for  ourselves  let  him  read  the  eigh- 
teenth chapter  of  the  book  of  the  Revelation.  That  chap- 
ter might  be  written  of  Europe  as  it  is  at  this  minute. 
Babylon  the  great  i^  fallen,  is  fallen.  The  kings  of  the 
earth  stand  off  from  her,  crying,  Alas  I  alas!  that  great 
city  Babylon,  for  in  one  hour  is  her  judgment  comet 
The  merchants  of  the  earth  weep  and  mourn  over  her, 
for  no  man  buyeth  their  merchandise  any  more,  saying, 
Alas!  alas!  that  great  city,  which  was  clothed  in  fine 
linen  and  purple  and  scarlet,  and  decked  with  gold  and 
precious  stones  and  pearls,  for  in  one  hour  so  great  riches 
is  come  to  naught.  And  every  shipmaster,  and  all  the 
company  in  ships,  and  sailors,  and  as  many  as  trade  by 
sea,  cast  dust  on  their  heads  and  ciy  over  her,  Alas  I  alas  I 
that  great  city  wherein  were  made  rich  all  that  had  ships 
in  the  sea  by  reason  of  her  costliness  1  for  in  one  hour 
she  is  made  desolate." 

"But  that  ain't  us." 

"No,  Headlights,  that's  not  us.  I  agree  with  you 
that  there's  a  difference.  America  is  not  in  the  same 
boat  with  Europe — not  quite — but  very  nearly.  Per- 
haps because  our  crimes  are  not  so  black  we've  been  given 
the  chance  to  do  what  we  have  to  do  more  of  our  own 
free  act.  From  Europe  what  she  had  has  been  taken 
away  violently,  whether  she  would  or  no.  We  have  the 
38S 


'  in 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 
chance  to  come  before  the  throne  of  God  and  offer  it  back 
of  our  own  free  will.    You  see  the  difference!    And,  oh, 
boys,  I  want  you  to  do  it — " 
"It  ain't  for  us,  Mr.  Christian,  to  decide  that." 
"Oh  yes,  it  is,  Beady!     It's  for  each  of  us  to  offer  will- 
ingly in  his  own  heart.    Not  just  to  the  government— 
not  just  to  the  country— not  just  to  France  or  Belgium 
or  any  other  nation  that's  in  a  tight  place— but  to  that 
blessed  and  heavenly  Father  Who's  giving  us  this  won- 
derful chance  to  put  everything  into  His  hands  again, 
and  get  it  all  back  for  redistribution.     Don't  you  see? 
That's  It— the  redistribution!    A  better  world   has  to 
come  out  of  this— a  juster  world— a  happier  world— a 
cleaner  world.     And  in  that  reconstruction  we  Americans 
have  the  chance  to  take  the  lead  because  we're  doing  it 
of  our  own  accord.     Every  other  country  has  some  ax  to 
grind;  but  we  have  none.     We've  none  except  just  to  be 
in  the  big  mov-  nent  of  all  mankind  upward  and  forward 
But  the  difference  between  us  an^  every  other  country 
—unless  It's  the  British  Empire-is  that  we  do  it  man  by 
man,  each  stepping  out  of  the  ranks  in  his  turn  as  if 
he  was  the  only  one  and  everything  depended  on  his  act 
It  s  up  to  you.  Beady;   it's  up  to  me;   it's  up  to  each 
American  singly." 

•|Why  ain't  it  up  to  every  European  singly?" 
•  "  T-L^'  ^''^y''^^  J"*'  beginning  to  understand  that  it 
IS.  The  Englishman,  the  Frenchman,  the  Italian,  they're 
beginning  to  see  that  the  democracy  we  talk  so  much 
about  isn't  merely  a  question  of  the  vote— that  it  isn't 
primarily  a  question  of  the  vote  at  all— it's  one  of  self- 
pjvemment  in  the  widest  and  yet  the  most  personal  sense. 
The  great  summons  is  not  to  mankind  in  nations;  it's  to 
mankind  as  individuals.  It's  to  Tom  and  Jimmy  and 
389 


THE   CITY    OF   COMRADES 

Peter  and  Headlights  and  Daisy  and  eirery  one  who  has 
a  name.  It's  the  individual  who  makes  the  country,  who 
forms  the  army,  who  becomes  the  redemptive  element. 
In  proportion  as  the  individual  cleanses  himself  from  the 
national  sin  the  national  sin  is  wiped  out.  So  it's  by 
Englishmen  and  Englishwomen  that  England  will  renew 
itself—" 

I  think  it  v-as  my  old  friend,  the  Irish  hospital  attend- 
ant, who  called  out,  "What's  England's  national  sin?" 
"     The  question  brought  the  speaker  to  a  halt.     He  seemed 
to  reflect. 

"What's  England's  national  sin?"  he  repeated.  "I 
should  say — mind  you,  I'm  not  sitting  in  judgment  on 
any  one  or  any  people — but  we've  all  got  to  clean  our 
;stables,  even  if  it  takes  the  labors  of  Hercules  to  accom- 
plish it— I  should  say  England's  national  vice— the  vice 
that's  been  eating  the  heart  out  of  her  body,  and  the 
■spirit  out  of  her  heart — is  sensuality." 

"What's  the  matter  with  France?" 

"I'm  not  an  international  physician  with  a  specialty 
for  diagnosis,"  Christian  laughed;  "but  in  my  opinion 
France  has  been  corroded  through  and  through  with 
sordidness.  She's  been  too  petty,  too  narrow,  too  mean, 
too  selfish — " 

"Say,  boss,  tell  us  about  my  country." 

"You  mean,  Italy,  Tony?  Haven't  you  got  to  get  rid 
of  your  superstition,  and  all  the  degrading  things  juper- 
stition  brings  with  it?  I  want  you  to  understand  that 
we're  talking  of  national  errors,  not  of  national  virtues." 

"Have  we  got  a  national  error  in  the  United  States?" 

"What  do  you  think,  Tapley?    Isn't  it  as  plain  as  the 
nose  on  your  face?    Isn't  it  written  all  over  the  country, 
on  every  page  of  every  newspaper  you  pick  up?" 
390 


THE  CITY  OF   COMRADES 

'"iVhatf    What  is  itf"  came  from  teveral  voice*  at 
once. 

"DishonestyP'  he  cried,  loudly.  "We  Americans  have 
got  our  good  pomts,  but  of  them  honesty  is  the  very 
smallest.  If  any  one  called  us  a  nation  of  sharpers  he 
wouldn't  be  very  far  wrong.  Our  notion  of  competiti  n 
IS  to  get  the  better  of  the  other  fellow,  by  foul  means  if 
It  can't  ae  done  by  fair.  That's  the  case  in  private  life, 
and  when  it  comes  to  public— well,  did  you  ever  hear  of 
anythmg  that  we  ever  undertook  as  a  people  that  didn't 
have  to  be  investigated  before  very  long?  You  can 
hardly  read  a  daily  paper  in  which  the  investigation  of 
some  public  trust  isn't  going  on.  Dishonesty  is  stamped 
deep,  deep  into  the  American  character  as  it  is  to-day; 
and  for  that  very  reason,  if  for  no  other,  we've  got  to  give 
everything  back.  If  we  don't  it  will  be  taken  from  us 
by  main  force;  and  we're  not  of  the  type  to  wait  for  that." 
He  seemed  to  gather  himself  together.  His  face,  al- 
ways benignant,  began  to  glow  with  an  inward  light. 

"But,  boys,  what  I  want  you  to  understand  is  that  we 
can  make  this  act  of  offering  as  a  great  act  of  faith 
Every  good  gift  and  every  perfect  gift  cometh  down! 
We  can  take  our  good  gifts  and  our  perfe^.;  gifts  and  hand 
them  up  I  We  can  anticipate  their  being  taken  from  us 
by  giving  them.  We  can  give  them  as  men  who  know 
whence  they  have  been  received,  and  where  they  will  be 

if  i>'"l,*''""  '"''  """""*  ^'■'"'e'nK'y  nor  of  necessity,  as 
the  Bible  tells  us,  for  God  loveth  a  cheerful  giver.  Now 
is  the  rime  for  us  to  test  that  love— every  man  for  him- 
self. The  appeal  is  to  the  individual.  Give,  and  it  shall 
be  given  unto  you;  good  measure,  pressed  down,  shaken 
together,  and  running  over,  shall  men  give  into  your 
bosom,  according  to  the  measure  that  ye  mete.  For  this 
391 


THE   CITY   OF   COMRADES 

giving  isn't  to  men,  it's  to  God;  it  isn't  a  portion,  it't 
all;  it  isn't  limited  to  material  things,  it  includes  our 
love  and  our  life.  It's  the  great  summons;  it's  the  weat 
surrender.  And— boys— my  dear  old  boys  who've  Been 
saved  from  other  things— we've  all  been  saved  for  this— 
for  something  we  never  expected,  but  which  isn't  hard 
to  do  when  you  look  at  it  in  the  right  way— to  hand  our- 
selves back,  in  body,  mind,  and  possessions,  to  Him  from 
whom  we  came,  that  He  may  make  a  new  use  of  us  and 
begin  all  over  again." 

And  the  first  thing  I  saw  when  he  stopped  was  Cantyre 
springing  forward  to  grisp  him  by  the  hand. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 


"XXrHEN  I  got  cut  the  streets  were  already  buzzing 
V  V  with  a  rumor  that  no  extra  had  as  yet  proclaimed. 
The  House  of  Representatives  had  followed  the  Senate 
in  voting  for  war,  and  the  President  was  about  to  sign 
the  declaration. 

But  I  forgot  this  on  arriving  at  the  flat,  for  Lovey  was 
propped  up  in  bed,  with  his  thin  nose  in  the  air,  making 
little  sniffs. 

"I  smell  it.  Slim,"  he  smiled,  as  I  entered.  "Kind  of 
a  coffee  smell  it  is  now,  with  a  dash  o'  bacon  and  heggs." 

"That  smell  is  always  round  this  flat,  Lovey,"  I  said, 
trying  to  be  casual.  "It's  all  the  breakfasts  you  and  I 
have  eaten — " 

"Oh  no.  Slim.  You  can't  be  mistook  in  this;  and  be- 
sides— "  He  made  a  sign  to  the  man  nurse  who  for  the 
past  week  or  two  Cantyre  had  sent  in  from  one  of  his 
hospitals.  ^'You  clear  out,  d'ye  'ear?  1  want  to  talk 
to  my  budny,  private-like." 

The  mail  strolled  out  to  the  living-room,  whispering 
to  me  as  he  passed:  "There's  a  change  in  him.  I  don't 
think  he'll  last  through  the  night." 

"G)me  and  sit  'ere,  sonny,"  Lovey  commanded  as 
soon  as  we  wetc  alone.  "I've  got  somethin'  special-like 
to  tell  ye.  Did  ye  know,"  he  went  on,  when  I  was 
seated  beside  the  bed,  "as  I'd  seen  Lizzy— and  she  'adn't 
her  neck  broke  at  all.  She  was  lovely." 
26  393 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

"Where?"  I  asked,  to  humor  him. 

"Right  'ere— right  beside  that  there  chair  that  you're 
a-sittin'  in." 

"When?" 

"Oh,  on  and  off— pretty  near  all  the  time  now." 

"You  mean  that  she  cotneS  and  go«s?" 

"No;  not  just  comin'  and  goin'.  She's — she's  kind  o 
'ere  all  the  time,  only  sometimes  I  ain't  lookin'."  His 
face  became  alight.  "There  she  is  now— and  a  great 
long  street  be'ind  'er.  No,  it  ain't  a  street;  it's  just  all 
lovely-like,  and  Lizxy  with  'er  neck  as  straight  as  a 
walkin'-stick— and  not' a  drinkin'-woman  no  more  she 
don't  look— it's  kind  o'  beautiful  like.  Slim,  only— only  I 
can't  make  ye  understand." 

Sighing  fretfully  over  his  inability  to  explain,  he  lapsed 
into  that  st'.te  of  which  I  never  was  sure  whether  it  was 
sleep  or  unconsciousness. 

The  coma  lasted  for  a  great  part  of  the  night.  Sending 
the  nurse  to  lie  down,  I  sat  and  watched,  chiefly  because 
I  had  too  much  on  my  mind  and  in  my  heart  to  want 
to  go  to  bed.  Every  two  or  three  hours  Cantyre  stole 
in,  in  his  dressing-gown,  finding  nothing  be  could  do. 
Once  or  twice  I  was  tempted  to  ask  him  what  he  thought 
of  Christian's  talk,  but,  fearing  to  break  the  spell  it 
might  have  wrought  in  him,  I  refrained.  He  himself 
didn't  mention  it,  nor  did  he  seem  to  know  that  I  had 
observed  his  impulsive,  shaking  hands. 

On  one  of  the  occasions  wiien  he  was  with  me  Lovey 
opened  his  eyes  suddenly,  beginning  to  murmur  some- 
thing we  couldn't  understsnd. 

"What  is  it,  old  chap?"  Cantyre  questioned,  bending 
over  him  and  listening. 

But  Lovey  was  already  articulating  brokenly.    It  took 
394 


THE  CITY  OF   COMRADES 

two  or  thrM  repetition.,  or  attempt*  at  repetition,  lor 
Cantyre  to  be  in  a  position  to  interpret. 
"What's  he  trying  to  say?"  I  inquired. 
Cantyre  pretended  to  arrange  the  bottles  on  the  table 
beside  the  bed  so  as  not  to  have  to  look  at  me. 

"He  says,  or  he's  doing  his  best  to  say,  'I  didn't  say 
nothmk  but  what  was  for  everybody's  good.'" 
It  was  on  my  lips  to  retort,  "Perhaps  he  didn't." 
I  left  that,  however,  for  Cantyre,  who  went  back  to 
nis  rooms  without  comment. 

He  returned  in  the  small  hours  of  the  morning,  and 
once  more  we  sat,  one  on  one  side  of  the  bed  and  the 
other  on  the  other,  in  what  was  practically  silence.  All 
X  could  say  of  it  was  that  it  had  become  a  sympathetic 
silence.  Why  it  was  sympathetic  I  didn't  know:  but  the 
unclassified  perceptions  told  me  that  it  was. 

When  Lovey  opened  his  eyes  again  it  was  with  the 
air  of  not  having  been  asleep  or  otherwise  away  from  us. 
Isavedye,  Slim,  didn't  I?" 
"Yes,  Lovey,  old  man,  you  did." 

.'.'1^^''',""'^''^  '°  ^^  y°"  ''""''^  '''eP  straight  too?" 
Yes,  Lovey." 

"Ye'd  never  'a'  done  it  if  it  'adn't  been  for  me?" 

"No,  Lovey," 

"And  I'd  never  'a'  gone  away  from  ye.  Slim.     I  was 

^«"/7f"''"^'"^"'"'  °^  y""-     ^  '^•'•"'t  mean  no  'arm  at 
all,  I  didn't." 

"I  know,  Lovey." 

He  fixed  his  glazing  eyes  upon  me  as  he  said,  "I  told 
ye  my  name  wasn't  Lovey,  didn't  I?" 

"No,  but  that  doesn't  matter." 

"No,  that  doesn't  matter  now.  We're  fellas  together, 
■o  what's  the  dilF?  ...  I  don't  care  where  we  sleeps  to- 
395 


THE   CITY  OF  COMRADES 

night,  io  long  a*  you're  there,  lonny.  .  .  .  Greeley's  Slip 
it  good  enough  for  mine,  if  I  can  snuggle  up  to  you, 
like.  ...  Ye  don't  mind,  do  yef" 

I  put  my  arm  round  his  shoulder,  raising  him. 

"No,  Lovey,  I  don't  mind.    Just  snuggle  up." 

"'Old  me  'and,  sonny." 

I  took  his  hand  in  mine  as  his  head  rested  on  mj 
shoulder. 

He  gave  a  long,  restful  sigh. 

"Lizzy  says  it's  an  awful  nice  place  where  she  is,  and — " 

I  felt  him  slipping  down  in  bed;  but  Cantyre,  who 
knew  more  of  such  cases  than  I  did,  caught  him  gently 
round  the  loins  and  lowered  him. 


-u-  rt  .' 

jH 

liiaKjE^ 

1 

■ 

^ 

■fiS|?   -V  -, 

iii 

:^«    I     ■ 

1 

.-^^M        '  -  !  ' 

CHAPTER  XXXlll 


/^N  coming  back  the  next  afternoon  from  lelecting 
>-^  the  spot  for  Lovey's  grave  there  was  a  man  in  khaki 
on  the  train.  When  I  got  out  at  the  Grand  Central  I  saw 
another.  In  Fifth  Avenue  I  saw  another  and  another. 
They  seemed  to  spring  out  of  the  ground,  giving  a  new 
aspect  to  the  streets.  In  the  streets  that  shining  thing 
I  had  noticed  on  landing  was  no  longer  to  be  seen.  Silver 
peace  had  faded  out,  while  in  its  place  there  was  coming 
— coming  by  degrees— but  coming— that  spirit  of  strong 
resolve  which  is  iron  and  gold. 

Or  perhaps  I  had  better  say  that  peace  had  taken 
refuge  in  my  ding>-  little  flat,  where  Lovey  was  lying  on 
his  bed  in  his  Sunday  clothes,  with  hands  folded  on  his 
breast.  Peace  was  in  every  line  of  the  fragile  figure;  in 
the  face  there  was  peace  satisfied — peace  content — 
gentle,  abiding,  eternal. 

Two  days  later  a  little  company  of  us  stood  by  his 
grave  while  Rufus  Legrand  read  the  ever-stirring  words 
of  the  earth  to  earth.  It  was  the  old  comradeship  which 
Lovey  himself  would  have  liked— the  fellowship  of  men 
who  had  fought  the  same  fight  as  he,  and  were  hoping 
to  be  faithful  unto  death  like  him — Christian,  Straight, 
little  Spender,  Beady,  Pyn,  the  wee  bye  Daisy,  and  one 
or  two  others.  Cantyre  alone  had  none  of  the  dark 
memories — and  yet  the  bright  and  blessed  memories — 
that  held  the  rest  of  us  together;  but  Cantyre  had  his 
place. 

397 


THE   CITY   OF   COMRADES 

We  had  driven  out  tide  by  lide  in  the  tame  motor, 
M  what  the  undertaker  called  chief  moumeri.  I  don't 
remember  that  we  uttered  a  word  to  each  other  till  we 
got  out  at  the  grave. 

It  was  Cantyre  who  said,  then:  "I  want  you  to  dnve 
back  with  me,  Frank.  There's  somewhere  I  should  like 
to  take  you." 

Reassured  by  his  use  of  my  name,  I  merely  nodded, 
wondering  what  he  meant. 

1  didn't  ask,  however;  nor  did  I  ask  when  we  were 
back  in  the  motor  again  and  on  our  way  to  town.  I  got 
my  first  hint  as  we  began  to  descend  the  long  avenue  m 
which  Sterling  Barry  had  his  house. 

As  I  expected,  we  stopped  at  the  door.  The  vacant 
lot  was  still  vacant,  and  among  its  dead  stalks  of  burdock 
and  succory  April  was  bringing  the  first  shades  of  soft 
green.  I  thought  of  Lovey,  of  course;  of  our  tramp  round 
Columbus  Circle;  of  my  midnight  adventure  right  on  this 
spot.  It  was  like  going  back  to  another  life;  it  was  as 
this  life  must  have  seemed  to  Lovey  and  his  Lizzy  reunited 
in  that  worid  where  her  neck  was  as  straight  as  a  walking- 
adck,  and  everything  was  lovely-like. 

Cantyre  spoke  low,  as  if  he  could  hardly  speak  at  all. 
"I  asked  Regina  to  be  in.  She'll  be  expecting  us." 
And  she  was.  She  was  expecting  us  in  that  kind  of 
agitation  which  hides  itself  under  a  pretense  of  being 
more  than  usually  cool.  In  sympathy  with  Lovey  s 
memory,  I  suppose,  she  was  dressed  in  black,  which  made 
a  foil  for  her  vivid  lips  and  eyes.  Out  of  the  latter  she 
was  unable  to  keep  a  shade  of  feverish  brightness  that 
belied  the  nonchalance  of  her  greeting. 

She  talked  about  Lovey,  about  the  funeral,  about  the 
weather,  about  the  declaration  of  war,  about  the  men  m 
398 


THE  CITY  OF  COMRADES 

khaki  who  widi  itich  lurpriting  promptnett  had  b«tim 
to  appear  in  the  street*.  She  talked  rapidly,  anxiously, 
against  time,  as  it  were,  and  busied  herself  pouring  tea. 
Suspecting,  doubtless,  that  Cantyre  had  something  special 
to  say,  she  was  ttying  to  fight  him  off  from  it  as  long 
as  possible. 

I  had  taken  a  seat;  he  remained  standing,  his  back 
to  the  fire.    His  look  was  abstracted,  thundery,  morose. 

Right  in  the  middle  of  what  Regina  was  saying  about 
the  seizure  of  the  German  ships  he  dropped  with  the  re- 
mark, "You  two  know  what  Lovey  told  me — what  he's 
been  telling  me  ever  since  you  both  came  home." 

Neither  of  us  had  a  word  to  say.  We  could  only  stare. 
You  could  hear  the  mantel-piece  clock  ticking  before 
he  went  on  again. 

"Well,  I'm  not  going  to  give  you  up,  Regina,"  he  de- 
clared, aggressively,  then. 

One  of  her  hands  was  on  the  handle  of  the  teapot; 
one  was  in  the  act  of  taking  up  a  cup.  If  coloring  was 
ever  transmuted  into  flame,  her  coloring  was  at  that 
moment.  There  was  a  dramatic  intensity  in  her  quiet- 
ness. 

"Have  I  asked  you  to,  Stephen?" 

"No;  but—" 

"Have  I?"  I  demanded. 

"No;   but—" 

"If  Lovey  did  it  it  was  without  any  knowledge  of 
mine,"  I  continued.  "I  practically  killed  him,  God  for- 
give me,  for  doing  itl" 

"You're  both  off  the  track,"  Cantyre  broke  in.  "You 
don't  know  what  I — what  I  want  to  say." 

"Very  well,  then,  Stephen.  Tell  us,"  Regina  said, 
tranquilly. 

399 


yaiii^. 

i 

H'' 

H' 

IB  msw*  '*  - 

^Bmc    1 

THE   CITY  OF  COMRAIES 

He  ipoke  itammeriiigly.  "It**— it's— ju*t  d><*:  Thi* 
II  no  time — for— foiv-love." 

We  ttared  again,  waiting  for  him  to  go  on. 

"It'i  what-'what  Giriitian  told  ui  two  or  three  niithti 
ago.  We're  in  a  world  where— .rhere  love  and  mamate 
are  no  longer  the  burning  quettioni.  They're  too  small. 
Don't  you  »eef" 

We  continued  to  ftare,  but  we  agreed  with  him. 

"So— io,"  he  faltered,  "I  want  you— I  want  you  both 
— to — to  put  it  all  off." 

"The  moratorium  of  loveF"  I  iuggeited. 

"The  moratorium  ,of  everything,"  he  took  up,  "but 
what — what  Christian  put  before  u<.  I  tee  that  now 
more  plainly  than  I  ever  saw  anything  in  my  life.  We've 
got  to  give  everything  up — and  get  it  back — different. 
We  shall  be  different,  too— and  things  that  we're  strug- 
gling over  now  will  be  settled  fnr  r^_  I  suppow,  without 
our  taking  them  into  our  own  hands  at  all.  That's  how 
I  look  at  it,  if  you  two  will  agree." 

"I  agree,  Stephen,"  Regina  said,  with  the  same  tran- 
quillity. 

"And  I,  too,  old  chap." 

"I'm — I'm  going  iver,"  he  stumbled  on,  "with  the 
first  medical  unit  from  Columbia — " 

"Oh,  Stephen!    How  splendid!" 

He  contradicted  her.  "No,  it  isn't.  I'm  not  doing  it 
from  any  splendid  motives  whatever.  I'm  going  just  to 
—to  try  and  get  out  of  myself.  Don't  you  see— you 
two?  You  must  see.  I'm — I'm  sunk  in  myself;  I've 
never  been  anything  else.  That's  what's  been  the  matter 
with  me.  That's  why  I  never  made  any  friends.  That's 
why  you,  Frank,  have  never  really  cared  a  straw  about 
me— in  spite  of  all  the  ways  I've  made  up  to  you;  and  why 
400 


THE  CITY  OF   COMRADES 

you,  Regina,  can  hardly  ttand  me.    But,  by  God  I  you're 
both  going  to  I" 

With  this  flash  of  excitement  I  sprang  up,  laying  my 
band  on  his  arm. 

"We  care  for  you  already,  old  man." 

"That's  not  the  point.  I've — I've  got  to  care  for  my- 
self.    I've  got  to  find  some  sort  of  self-respect." 

But  Regina,  too,  sprang  up,  joining  us  where  we  stood 
on  the  hearth-rug.  She  didn't  touch  him;  she  only  stood 
before  him  with  hands  clasped  in  front  of  her. 

"Stephen  dear,  you're  not  doing  any  more  heart- 
searching  than  Frank  and  I  are  doing;  or  than  every  true 
American  is  doing  all  through  the  country.  What  you 
■ay  Mr.  Christian  told  you  the  other  night  is  more  or 
less  consciously  in  everybody's  soul.  We  know  we're 
called  to  the  judgment  seat;  and  at  the  judgment  seat 
yre  stand.  That's  all  there  is  to  it.  Marriage  and  giving 
in  m.-irtiage  for  people  like  us  must  wait.  It's  become  un- 
important. There  are  pi,>ple — younger  than  we  are  for 
the  most  part — to  whom  it  comes  first.  But  for  us,  with 
our  experience — each  of  us — you  with  yours,  Frank  with 
his,  I  with  mine — well,  we  have  other  work  to  do.  We 
must  see  this  great  thing  through  before  we  can  give  our 
attention  to  ourselves.  And  we  shall  see  it  through, 
sha'n't  we,  by  doing  as  you  say?  We  must  give  every- 
thing up — and  wait.  Then  we  shall  probably  find  our 
difficulties  solved  for  us.  I  often  think  that  patience — 
the  power  to  wait  and  be  confident — is  the  most  stupen- 
dous force  in  the  world." 

And  with  few  more  words  than  this  we  left  her.    I 
went  first,  giving  them  a  little  time  alone  togeth         But 
I  hadn't  gone  very  far  before,  on  accidentally  turning 
round,  I  saw  Cantyre  coming  down  the  steps. 
401 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 


IT  was  just  a  year  later  that  a  secret  but  profound  mis- 
giving in  my  heart  began  to  be  dispelled. 
I  call  it  secret  because  it  was  unacknowledged  by  my- 
self. It  would  never,  I  believe,  have  come  to  me  of  its 
own  accord;  it  was  suggested  from  without,  and  even  so 
I  didn't  harbor  it  consciously.  It  was  only  with  the  news 
of  Seicheprey,  of  which  the  details  began  to  come  in  tow- 
ard the  end  of  April,  1918,  that  I  knew  that  in  the  wheat 
of  my  hopes  and  confidences  there  had  been  tares  of 
anxiety  and  fear. 

I  had  seen  too  many  of  those  strapping,  splendid  fel- 
lows not  to  be  confident  and  hopeful.  But  I  had  also 
read  too  much  of  the  folly  of  pitting  green  boys,  how- 
ever magnificently  built,  against  the  seasoned  troops  of 
long  campaigns,  not  to  have  a  lurking  dread  as  to  the 
test.  I  never  voiced  the  question,  not  even  to  niy  own 
heart;  yet  Satan,  the  manufacturer  of  fear,  had  not  failed 
to  formulate  it  to  my  subconsciousness.  What  if  this 
noble  America,  so  strong,  so  generous,  so  ready  to  respond 
to  that  call  which  Christian  had  uttered,  so  eager  to  pour 
out  its  all,  with  both  hands,  gladly,  gaily— what  if  now, 
before  the  guns  of  a  ruthless  and  unconquerable  foe,  she 
should  meet  the  disaster  that  would  bring  her  to  the  dust? 
What  if  those  beloved  boys,  all  inew  and  muscle  as  they 
were,  should  go  down  as  I  had  seen  -ny  fellow-country- 
men go  down,  in  heaps  that  showed  the  impotence  of 
402 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 


▼alor?  T  !i!<.>  ^vltnessed  so  much  sacrifice — sacrifice  by 
mistake,  sacrifice  b}  ack  of  skill,  sacrifice  by  lack  of 
knowled.'e  .hat  coul;  have  been  obtained — that  when  I 
looked  ac  tl::ff  ''>ds  my  heart  sank  at  moments  when  it 
should  have  been  most  buoyant. 

Then  came  Seicheprey,  and  I  knew. 

Then  came  the  Mame,  the  Ourcq,  the  Vesle;  and  I 
was  satisfied. 

For  the  cause  had  absorbed  me  again,  heart  and  soul 
and  mind.  I  was  being  sent  all  over  the  country,  and 
sometimes  into  Canada,  to  speak  for  it.  In  this  way  I 
came  to  be  in  a  small  town  in  the  Middle  West — Mendoza 
happened  to  be  its  name — when,  picking  up  a  paper,  I 
saw  that  a  hospital  had  been  bombed.  The  next  edition 
reported  that  two  doctors  and  three  or  four  nurses  had 
been  killed.  The  next  told  us  their  names.  Among  the 
names  was  . . . 

And  so  he  did  give  his  all. 

I  didn't  write  to  Regina;  Regina  didn't  write  to  me. 
She  was  busy,  as  I  was  busy;  but  somewhere  in  the  dis- 
tance and  the  silence  between  us  there  was  a  place  where 
our  spirits  met. 

And  when  we  met  in  person  we  still  didn't  speak  of  it. 
It  was  too  deep,  too  sacred,  too  complicated  and  strange 
to  go  readily  into  words.  It  was  easier  and  more  natural 
'  to  talk  of  something  else. 

That  was  at  Rosyth,  on  Long  Island,  at  the  end  of 
June.  Hearing  that  I  had  returnsd  to  New  York  for  a 
rest,  Hilda  Grace  asked  me  down  for  the  week-end,  just 
as  she  had  asked  me  exactly  four  years  before. 

On  this  occasion  she  made  no  attempt  to  sound  me; 
she  mentioned  Regina  only  to  say  that  she  was  at  the 
ted-and-yellow  house  on  the  opposite  hill  for  a  little  rest 
403 


m 


THE   CITY   OF   COMI    .        S 

on  her  part.     By  disappearing  after  lunch  on  Sunday  she 
gave  me  to  understand  that  I  was  free. 

I  went  to  the  old  Homblower  house  by  the  way  I  had 
taken  when  I  had  last  come  away  from  it— down  Mrs. 
Grace's  steps  to  the  beach— along  the  shore— and  up  the 
steps  to  the  lawn  where  the  foxgloves  bordered  the  scrub- 

I  went  back  to  the  veranda  where  I  had  waited  and 
sat  down  in  one  of  the  same  chairs.  Taking  out  a  ag- 
arette,  I  lighted  it  and  began  to  smoke. 

Perhaps  some  one  had  seen  me  from  a  wmdow,  for  in 
a  little  while  there  was  the  click  of  high  heels  on  the  bare 
steps  of  the  stairway.  Then  out  on  the  veranda  came  a 
figure  too  little  to  be  tall  and  too  tall  to  be  considered 
little,  carrying  herself  proudly,  placing  her  damty  feet 
daintily,  but  advancing  toward  me  instead  of  gomg  away. 
She  was  dres  ed  in  white,  with  a  scarlet  band  about  her 
waist  and  another  about  her  dashing  Panama,  of  the 
same  shade  as  her  lips.  In  the  opening  at  the  neck  she 
wore  a  string  of  pearls.  Lower  down,  the  opemng  was 
fastened  by  a  diamond  bar-pin.  In  her  hand  she  earned 
a  gold-mesh  purse,  which  she  threw  carelessly  on  a  table 
as  she  passed. 

She  met  me  as  any  hostess  meets  a  man  who  comes 
to  make  a  call.  We  talked  of  the  topics  of  the  day, 
beginning  with  the  weather.  From  the  weather  we  passed 
to  the  war,  and  to  all  our  anxieties  and  humiliations 
through  the  spring.  We  could  do  this,  however,  with  a 
ray  of  cheerfulness,  because  the  Chateau-Thierry  sahent 
was  beginning  to  be  wiped  out.  .       j  v> 

"But  why  do  things  have  to  happen  the  way  they  dor 
I  asked  her.    "If  we're  going  to  win]  why  couldn't  we 
feave  won  from  the  first?    What',  the  use  of  all  this  back- 
4<H 


EJ " 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 

Ing  and  filling,  this  losing  and  taking,  and  relosing  and 
retaking,  the  same  old  ground?  Oh,  I  know  there  are  the 
usual  explanations  as  to  our  not  being  up  to  the  mark 
in  munitions  and  man  power;  but  I  mean  what  is  the 
explanation  from  the  point  of  view  of  an  All-Powerful 
and  All-Intelligent—?" 

"Isn't  it  the  same  explanation  that  applies  to  eveiv 
human  life?" 

"Well,  what's  that?" 

"I  don't  know  that  I  can  te"  you,"  she  smiled,  thought- 
fully; "but  I  do  feel  sure  that  we  need  our  experiences. 
With  minds  and  natures  like  ours  we're  not  fitted  to  go 
straight  and  simply  from  point  to  point.  The  long  way 
round  has  to  be  our  short  way  home,  and — and — the 
way  things  happen  is  the  best  way.  .  .  .  Oh,  dear,  what's 
happening?" 

It  was  admirably  staged.  The  slipping  of  the  string  of 
pearls  to  the  floor  could  hardly  have  been  another  acci- 
dent.    For  me  there  was  but  one  thing  to  do. 

Springing  to  my  feet  I  stooped  and  |.icked  the  necklet 
up.     Having  picked  it  up,  I  put  it  in  my  pocket. 

I  stood  smiling  down  at  her.  She  sat  smiling  up  at 
me.  There  was  more  in  mat  smile  than  a  lifetime  ot 
words  could  have  uttered. 

But  when  I  was  about  to  pull  the  pearls  out  of  my 
*  pocket  again  she  leaned  forward  and  said,  huskily: "  Don't, 
Frank.     Keep  them." 

I  looked  at  her,  puzzled.     "Why,  Regina?" 

"Because  some  day  you — you'll  give  them  back  to 
me.  Till  then  they'll  be  yours.  They'll  be  a  symbol— 
a  pledge." 

"Will  it  be — some  day — some  day — soon?" 

"Not  so  very  soon,  Frank.  I  must  still  have  time 
40s 


THE   CITY  OF   COMRADES 
to— to  think  of  Stephen.     I   cared   for   him— in   my 

"'"  i  think  of  him,  too,"  I  said,  shakily.  "  It  seems  hard 
that  he  should  have  had  to  give  everything,  when  I  m— 
I'm  getting  everything." 

"Oh,  death  isn't  so  terrible— or  so  significant.  Ihere 
wouldn't  be  so  much  of  it  if  it  was.  I  only  mean— but 
I  can't  explain  to  vou.  We  must  get  a  little  farther  on— 
not  only  you  and  I— but  our  country— our  countnes- 
we  must  give  still  more— we  must  at  least  offer  all  even 
if  it  isn't  ail  taken  away  from  us— tefore  it's  given  back 
to  us — renewed — purified.' 

"And  then?"         , 

"Oh,  then!" 

But  the  glow  in  her  face  said  the  rert. 


rax  CMD 


l-J 

Isifl 

1  mB 

EDGAR  RICE  BURROUGH'S 
NOVELS 

TARZAN  THE  UNTAMED 

Telti  of  Taizan't  return  to  the  life  of  the  ape-man  in 
kit  search  for  vengeance  on  those  who  took  from  him  his 
wife  and  home. 

JUNGLE  TALES  OF  TARZAN 

Records  the  many  wonderful  exploits  bjr  which  Tanan 
proves  his  right  to  ape  kingship. 

A  PRINCESS  OF  MARS 

Forty-three  million  miles  from  t.ie  earth — a  succession 
of  the  weirdest  and  most  astounding  adventures  in  fiction. 
John  Carter,  American,  finds  himself  on  the  planet  Mars, 
battling  for  a  beautiful  woman,  with  the  Green  Men  ol 
Mars,  terrible  creatures  fifteen  feet  high,  mounted  on 
horses  like  dragons. 

THE  GODS  OF  MARS 

Continuing  John  Carter's  adventures  on  the  Planet  Mars, 
m  which  he  does  battle  against  the  ferocious  plant  men," 
creatures  whose  mighty  tails  swished  their  victims  to  instant 
death,  and  defies  Issus,  the  terrible  Goddess  of  Death, 
whom  all  Man  worships  and  reveres. 

THE  WARLORD  OF  MARS 

Old  acquaintances,  made  in  the  two  otner  acuiU*,  reap- 
pear.  Tars  Tarkas,  Tardos  Mors  and  others.  There  is  a 
happy  ending  to  the  story  in  the  union  of  the  Warlord, 
the  title  conferred  upon  John  Carter,  with  Dejah  Thoris. 

THUVIA.  MAID  OF  MARS 

The  fourth  volume  of  the  series.  The  story  centers 
around  the  adventures  of  Cartboris,  the  son  of  John  Car- 
ter and  Thuvia,  daughter  of  a  Martian  Emperor. 

GROSSET  tc  DUNLAP.  Pitbushbus,  NEW  YORK 


STORIES  OF  RARE  CHARM  BY 

GENE  STRATTON-PORTER 

im  N  ^  iwim  >Mti  ■»  tiM.     «iliHr*iit*l>«*»'»ll»t 
MICHAEL  O'HALLORAN,     IUi<itnted  by  Franca  Rogera. 

Michael  1*  a  quick-witted  little  Irii>h  newiboy,  living  in  Northern 
Indiana.    He  adopts  a  deserted  little  girl,  a  cripple.    He  also  a»- 
lumes  tlie  responuibility  of  leading  the  entire  rural  oommunity  U|^ 
ward  and  onward, 
LADDIE.     Illiutrated  by  Herman  PfeUer. 

This  is  a  bright,  cheery  tale  ivith  the  acenn  laid  In  Indiana.  TlM 
•tory  is  told  by  Little  Sister,  the  youngest  member  of  a  large  family, 
but  it  is  concerned  not  so  tiiuch  with  childish  doings  as  with  ttie  tova 
affaiia  of  older  members  of  the  family.  Chief  among  them  is  that 
of  Laddie  and  the  Princess,  an  English  girl  who  has  come  to  live  ia 
the  neighborhood  and  about  whose  family  there  hangs  a  mystery. 
THE  HARVESTER.     lUustrated  by  W.  L.  Jacobs. 

"The  Harvester,"  la  >  man  of  the  woods  and  fields,  and  if  tha 
book  had  nothing  in  it  but  the  splendid  figjrr  of  this  man  it  would 
be  notable.  But  when  the  Girl  comes  to  his  "  Medicine  Woods." 
there  begins  a  romance  of  the  rarest  idyllic  quality.  , 

FRECKLES.      lUustrated. 

Freckles  is  a  nameless  waif  when  the  tale  opens,' but  the  way  la 
which  he  Ukes  hold  of  lif e ;  the  nature  friendships  he  forms  in  the 
great  Limberlost  Swamp  ;  the  manner  in  which  everyone  who  meet* 
hhn  succumbs  to  the  charm  of  his  engaging  personality  ;  and  bia 
love-story  with  "  The  Angel "  are  full  of  real  sentiment. 
A  GIRL  OF  THE  LIMBERLOST.    .Illustrated. 

The  story  of  a  girl  of  the  Michigan  woods ;  a  buoyant,  loveable 
type  of  the  self-reliant  American.  Her  philosophy  Is  one  of  love  and 
kindness  towards  all  things ;  her  hope  is  never  dimmed.  And  by 
the  sheer  beauty  of  her  soul,  and  the  purity  of  her  vision,  she  wins  from, 
barren  and  unpromising  surroundings  those  rewards  of  high  courage. 
AT  THE  FOOT  OF  THE  RAINBOW.  Illustrations  in  ^lors. 
'  The  scene  of  this  charming  love  story  is  laid  in  Central  Indiana. 
The  story  is  one  of  devoted  friendship,  and  tender  self-sacrificing 
love.  The  novel  is  brimful  of  the  most  beautiful  word  painting  o( 
nature,  and  its  pathos  and  tender  sentiment  will  endear  it  to  alL  ' 
THE  SONG  OF  THE  CARDINAL.     Profusely  illustrated.  j 

A  love  ideal  of  the  ffl"1'"p'  bird  and  hia  mate,  toid  with  deUcaty 
and  humor. 

New  York 


Grosset  &  DuNLAP,        Publishers, 


BOOTH     TARKINGTON'S 
NOVELS 

WW  >»  IM«  xwiwi  tw>»  imtM.   name  iwtt  *  Pn^n-t  M»t 

SEVENTEEN.    Illuatrated  by  Arthur  William  Brown. 

No  one  but  the  creator  of  Penrod  could  hare  portrayed 
the  immortal  youn^  people  of  this  story.  Ita  humor  is  irre- 
sistible and  reminiscent  of  the  time  when  the  reader  waa . 
Seventeen. 

PENROD.    mustrated  by  Gordon  Grant. 

This  is  a  picture  of  a  boy's  heart,  full  of  the  lovable,  hu- 
morous, tragic  things  which  are  locked  secrets  to  most  older 
folks.    It  is  a  finished,  exquisite  work. 

PENROD  AND  SAM.  Illustrated  by  Worth  Brehm. 

Like  "  Penrod "  and  "  Seventeen,"  this  book  conb^ns 
some  remarkable  phases  of  real  boyhood  and  some  of  the  best 
stories  of  juvenile  prankishness  that  have  ever  been  written. 

THE  TURMOIL.    Illustrated  by  C.  E.  Chambers. 

Bibbs  Sheridan  is  a  dreamy,  imaginative  youth,  who  re- 
volts against  his  father's  plans  for  him  to  be  a  servitor  of 
big  business.  The  love  of  a  fine  girl  turns  Bibb's  life  from 
failure  to  success. 

THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA.    Frontispiece. 

A  story  of  love  and  politics, — ^more  especially  a  picture  of 
•  country  editor's  life  in  Indisiu,  but  the  charm  of  the  book 
Imb  in  the  love  interest. 

THE  FLIRT.    Illustrated  by  CSarence  F.  Underwood. 

The  "  FUrt,"  the  younger  of  two  sistera,  breaks  one  g^rl'a 
engagement,  drives  one  man  to  suicide,  causes  the  mimler 
of  another,  leads  another  to  lose  his  fortune,  and  in  the  end 
marries  a  stupid  and  unpromising  suitor,  leaving  the  really 
worthy  one  to  marry  her  sister. 

Mk  far  Complele  /nt  lU  rf  G.  &  D.  Populaf  CopsirighleJ  FlcUoa 

Gkossbt  &  DuNLAP,        Publishers,        New  Yock 


KATHLEEN  NORRIS'  STORIEI 


i  :  V  i 


■**.«**' 

lis 
i 

f   - 

tak  l<r  aiuMt »  Omlo'iMit 


SISTERS.  FrontUpi«c«  by  Frtnk  Strctt. 

The  Califomi*  Redwoodi  fcimiih  the  tackground  lor  thif 
beautiiul  »tory  of  uuerly  devotion  uid  uciifice. 

POOR.  DEAR.  MARGARET  KIRBY. 
Frontispiece  by  George  Gibbj. 

A  collection  of  deliKhtful  itories,  Including  "  Bridging  the 
Yean"   and  "The  Tide-Mareh."    Thia  story  i»  now  ihown in 
moving  picture!. 
JOSSELYN'S  WIFE.  Frontlaplece  by  C.  Allan  Gilb«t. 

The  story  of  a  beautiful  woman  who  fought  a  bitter  ligbt  io* 
happiness  and  love. 
MARTIE.  THE  UNCGNQUERED. 
Illustrated  by  Charles  £.  Chambers. 

The  triumph  of  a  dauntless  spirit  over  adverse  conditions. 

THE  HEART  OF  RACHAEL. 
Frontispiece  by  Charles  E.  Chambers. 

An  interesting  story  of  divorce  and  the  problems  that  com* 
with  a  second  marriage. 

THE  STORY  OF  JULIA  PAGE. 

Frontispiece  by  C.  Allan  Gilbert. 

r"A  sympathetic  portrayal  of  the  qoest  of  a  normal  girl,  obscort 

and  lonely,  for  the  happiness  of  liSe. 

SATURDAY'S  CHILD.   Frontispiece  by  F.  Graham  Cootei. 
Can  a  girl,  bom  in  rather  sordid  conditions,  lift  herself  through 
sheer  determination  to  the  better  things  for  which  her  soot 
hungered  ? 

MOTHER.   Illustrated  by  F.  C.  Yohn. 

A  story  of  the  big  mother  heart  that  beats  in  the  baclcgroond 
of  every  girl's  life,  and  some  dreams  which  came  true. 


AJc  far  Camplele  free  lU  of  G.  (»  D.  Pbpular  CopyrlthUj  FitUan 
Grosset  &  DuNLAP,  Publishers, 


New  York 


FLORENCE  L.  BARCLAY'S 
NOVELS 

THE  WHITE  LADIES  OF  WORCESTER 

A  rov^i  of  the  12tb  Century.  Tb*  beroine,  believing  she 
lud  lost  her  lover,  enters  a  coavent  He  returns,  and  in- 
tere;>ting  developments  follow, 

THE  UPAS  TREE 

A  love  story  of  rare  diarm.    It  deal*  with  a  successful 
author  and  his  wife. 
THROUGH  THE  POSTERN  GATE 

The  story  (rf  a  seven  day  courtship,  in  which  the  dis- 
crepancy in  ages  vanished  into  insignificance  before  the 
convincmg  demonstration  of  abiding  love. 

THE  ROSARY 

The  story  oi  a  young  artist  who  is  reputed  to  love  beauty 
above  all  else  in  the  world,  but  who,  when  blinded  through 
an  accident,  gains  life's  greatest  happiness.  A  rare  story 
of  the  great  passion  of  two  real  people  superbly  capable  of 
love,  its  sacrifices  and  its  exceeding  reward. 
THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

The  l<)vely  young  Lady  Ingleby,  recently  widowed  by  the 
death  of  a  husband  who  never  understood  her,  meets  a  fine, 
cleai.  youi«[  chap  who  is  ignorant  of  her  title  and  they  fall 
deeply  in  fcve  with  each  other.  When  he  learns  her  real 
identity  a  situation  of  singular  power  is  developed. 
THE  BROKEN  HALO 

The  story  of  a  young  man  whose  religions  belief  was 
shattered  in  childhood  and  restored  to  him  by  the  little 
white  lady,  many  years  older  than  himself,  to  whom  he  is 
passionately  devoted. 
THE  FOLLOWING  OF  THE  STAR 

The  story  of  a  young  missionary,  who,  about  to  Start  for 
Africa,  marries  wealthy  Diana  Rivers,  in  order  to  help  her 
fulfill  the  c6nditions  ol  her  uncle's  will,  and  how  they  finally 
come  to  love  eat*  other  and  are  reunited  after  experiences 

that  soften  and  purify. — — ^^-=^==^= 

Grosset  &  DuNLAP,        Publishers,        Nevt  York 


ETHEL    M.    DELL'S    NOVELS 


M«r  II  M  alMnw  Mia  ■«  MM. 


THE  LAMP  IN  THE  DESERT  , 

The  icene  of  thit  iplendid  woty  if  laid  in  India  and 
telli  of  the  lamp  of  love  that  continuei  to  ihine  throu^ 
all  lorti  of  tribuUtioni  to  final  happineM. 

GREATHEART 

The  ttory  of  a  cripple  whoae  deformed  body  conceab 
a  noble  louL  , 

TTTF.  HUNDREDTH  CHANCE 

A  hero  who  worked  to  win  even  when  there  waa  only 
"  a  hundredth  chance." 
THE  SWINDLER 

The   story  of   a   "bad  man's"    aoul  revealed  by  • 
woman's  faith. 
THE  TIDAL  WAVE 

Talcs  of  love  and  of  women  who  learned  to  know  th« 
i  true  from  the  false. 
THE  SAFETY  CURTAIN 

I     A  very  vivid  love  story  of  India.      The  volume  ab* 
'  contains  four  other  long  stories  of  equal  interest 


Gbosset  &  DuNLAP,        Publishers,        New  Yo« 


JAMES  OLIVER  CURWOOD'S 

STORIES  OF  ADVENTURE 

****  ■»  «*<t     «*  f  »mm  >  iwiM-t  iiit.~ 


THE  RIVER'S  IWD 

A  alory  of  tlM  Royal  Uointad  PoUe*. 
THE  GOLDEN  SNARE 

Thrilling  adveutum  in  tl»~Far  Notthland. 
NOMADS  OF  THE  NORTH 

Tba  itory  of  a  b««r*cub  and  a  dog, 
KAZAN 

The  tale  of  a  "qn»rter.«traln  wolf  and  tlirM,<iB»i\»rt  hukr"  Mr> 
betwaen  the  cull  of  the  human  and  hla  wild  mata. 
BAREE,  SON  OF  KAZAN 

The  story  of  the  son  of  the  blind  Orey  Wolf  and  the  nllaat  part 
M  played  in  the  Urea  of  a  man  and  a  woman. 

THE  COURAGE  OF  CAPTAIN  PLUM 

The  story  of  the  King  of  Beavai  laland,  a  Mormon  colony,  and  hit 
battle  with  Capuln  Plum,  /■«.-"» 

THE  DANGER  TRAIL 

A  tale  of  love,  Indian  vengeance,  and  a  mystery  of  tb*  North. 
THE  HUNTED  WOMAN 

A  tale  of  a  great  aght  in  the  "  valley  of  gold  "  for  a  woma.-]. 
THE  FLOWER  OF  THE  NORTH 

The  story  of  Fort  o'  God,  where  the  wild  flavor  of  tb*  wildem^ 
b  blended  with  the  courtly  atmoaphara  of  Franca, 
THE  GRIZZLY  KING 

The  story  of  Tbor,  the  big  grizzly. 
ISOBEL 

A  lov*  story  of  the  Far  Nortb. 
THE  WOLF  HUNTERS 

A  thrilling  tale  of  adventure  la  th«  Canadian  wUdemen. 
THE  GOLD  HUNTERS 

The  story  of  adventure  in  the  Hndson  Bay  wilds. 
THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

Filled  with  exciting  Incidents  in  the  land  of  strong  men  and  wom*& 

BACK  TO  GOD'S  COUNTRY 

A  thrilling  story  of  the  Far  North,  The  great  Photoplay  was  madf 
flotc  this  book, 

(inosSET   &    DUNLAP,  PUBLISHERS.  NeW   YoRK 


ZANE  GREY'S  NOVRi  g 


\. 


THE  MAN  OF  THK  FOREST 

THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT' 

THE  U.  P.  TRAIL 

WILDFIRE 

>HE  BORDER  LEOMM 
THE  RAINBOW  TRAIT 
THE  HERITAGE  OF  THK  DigSICIlT 
RIDERS  OF  THE  PITRPrr  c^^y 
THF  LIGHT  OF  WESTF.RN  STARS 
THE  LAST  OF  THK  PLAINSMEN 
THE  LONE  STAR  RANr.FB 
DESERT  GOLD 
BETTY  ZANE 

LAST  OF  THE  GREAT  SCOII^         *  *" 

Wetnore.  with  Foreword  ind  eondmkm  by  Ztt.*  Gr.^ 

ZANE  GREY'S  BOOKS  FOR  BOYS 

KEN  WARD  IN  THE  lUNGty 
THE  YOUNG  LION  HirMTvi^ 
THK  YOUNG  FORESTFB 
THE  YOUNG  PITCHKR 
THE  SHORT  STOP 

THE  RED-HEADED  OUTFlELn  Awn  OTHER 
BASEBALL  STORIES  ' 


SrmV  ^  P"'^'-*'.       PuBusMM,'      Niw  York 


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